


The Land of Might Have Been

by jusrecht



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Genre: F/M, Genderbending, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2011-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When love is in excess, it brings a man no honour nor worthiness. <i>(Euripides)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Land of Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> **Other Pairings:** Dino/OFC, Tsuna/Kyoko, fem!Hibari/other Vongola members
> 
>  **Warnings:**  
>  1\. Very, _very_ dark. There are subjects which are rather grey here, and all I can say is please try to keep an open mind while reading.
> 
> 2\. This fic has a legion of original characters who belong to the Italian law enforcement, so obviously they're standing on the other side of the line against the KHR characters. The portrayal of the Mafia here will probably be rather different from what Amano-sensei intends and take more of our-world approach. So no, Dino, Tsuna, etc. are not heroes or anything of the sort—they're criminals.
> 
> 3\. As for the alleged main pairing, this is a story of their love being twisted into something really, _really_ ugly. Both Dino and Hibari are guilty for whatever's happening here and they have done/will still do a lot of things which are far from 'right'. If you want to read a happy love story that features those two in abundance, kindly turn back and look for something else.

0.

She was sitting upright on the sofa, her black suit stark against braids of gold and silver of the upholstery. She had a pair of lovely grey eyes, as sharply defined as the rest of her beautiful face, and so slowly did they turn upon him, acknowledge him, admit his presence in this room paid by his name and wealth.

He grinned, a wicked man’s smile, the taste of vodka thick in his mouth. The girl last night was pretty enough, sensual enough, her mouth talented enough, but this one was in a league of her own. Perhaps his new, worthless agent had finally made use of his head and recognised his client’s taste for adventures, preferably with a sprinkle of danger at the side. A glimpse of something under her sleeves made him lick his lips, anticipation rising in treacherous waves. He would take his sweet time to undress her, and then bind her wrists with that precious tie of black silk—or maybe he would let her tie him down instead, and they would see what she had hidden under those sleeves, whether it would fit inside her just like that or a little foreplay would be in order and he would get to watch her play with herself…

Unhurried, she uncoiled her long limbs and rose to her full height, sleek blackness framing her slenderness. He leaned his weight against the doorframe, eyes feasting on her gait and grace as she moved toward him, silent as shadow. She wore indifference like a second layer of skin and if it stirred uneasiness deep within him, the alcoholic cloud in his mind rendered all but the weight of her presence mute. These girls were never indifferent; they were all impressed, would be, given enough time in his bed, under his caresses.

“What’s your name?”

A flash of emotion flitted across her face, brief and sharp as lightning. He felt the threat, felt the dangerous thrum radiating from her skin like chaffing heat, but his mind was slow in the viscous haze and his listless muscles fell victim to it. She raised her left arm, and the last thing he saw was a flash of silver before darkness dragged him under.

 

—

 

1.

A decorated officer of the Polizia or not, Daniele Verro did not appreciate being woken up by a phone call at six in the morning. On a holiday no less.

The call was from his workaholic of a partner, Giancarlo Rinaldi, who immediately launched into a long string of explanations, all spoken enthusiastically but very few of which actually made it past the wall of sleep still fortifying Daniele’s mind. One minute of that drone and he was once again lulled into the pleasant, warm depth his pillow was offering.

“Come to the office. NOW.”

The sharp, commanding bark dragged him back to the surface and before he could locate his voice to launch a protest, Carlo had hung up, the bastard.

Feeling viciously vindictive toward the whole world and their cousins, Dani left his bed and took a quick shower to douse any lingering wisp of sleep. Then he spent thirty minutes enjoying his breakfast— _cornetto_ and _cappuccino_ and a good smoke to properly wake him up—in a café on his way to the _Questura_ , mostly to annoy his partner.

That annoyance, however, did not stop him from buying another portion on his way out—God only knew when Carlo had eaten last. From the café, it was a fifteen-minute walk to his office and the food would still be reasonably warm.

There was only one word to describe Carlo’s office: a dump. He could barely see the desk, almost entirely buried under stacks of files and old reports, most of which had been solved or put into the back burner. The man himself was standing in front of a whiteboard overrun with photographs and notes on colourful papers, arms loosely crossed in front of his chest. Taller and only slightly older than Dani’s thirty-three years, he was nevertheless a lot more obsessed with their job, a quality which their superiors found both useful and alarming.

“We are supposed to be on a holiday,” Dani said by way of greeting, setting his purchase down on what little space left between towers of papers.

Clearly, Carlo had as much regard toward holidays as ants did. That he had not slept at all the night before was quickly evident when he finally turned around to acknowledge his partner’s presence. “He’s the third victim,” he said, pointing to a picture of an actor Dani recognised from an action movie he had watched not eight hours ago.

“Of what?” He frowned at the other man after a passing glance at the photograph.

“The night we solved that Mutolo case, you mentioned a murder in Salerno.”

“Where the victim was beaten to death?”

Carlo nodded. “This morning there was another murder here in Napoli, same M.O.”

Dani glanced at the rest of the pictures tacked on the whiteboard and winced. “That’s the body? He’s an actor, isn’t he?”

“Was, but that isn't his picture.” Dani’s voice was grave. “Apart from that one in Salerno, I discovered one other unsolved murder that seemed rather unusual. In Cosenza seven months ago, the victim was also beaten to death with a blunt object.”

“You think this may be a serial killer?”

“I think it’s worth looking into.”

“It’s pretty thin.” Dani navigated his way between boxes littering the floor and squinted at the explanations written in small, cramped letters next to each victim’s picture. “Three different cities and three completely different backgrounds. This one was a stock-broker, the one in Salerno a street musician, and the last we have here a famous actor looking for a good time in an expensive resort.”

The other man shrugged. “It’s still a connection. Don’t forget that all victims were men of thirty to forty years of age.”

“Carlo, there is this thing called coincidence.”

“And another called laziness,” Carlo said sharply before grabbing his coat and breakfast. “I’ve asked Norma to look into more unsolved cases, going as far as five years back. Meanwhile you and I are going to this resort and see about the newest murder.”

Dani sighed and took the car key out of his partner’s coat. “As long as I’m driving.”

 

—

 

2.

Another smile. Another _‘grazie’_. Another handshake.

If he were to be honest with himself, there were worse tortures in the world, but Tsuna had been ready to run back into the villa and hide for the rest of the evening when he finally escaped from his latest guest’s scrutiny. Blood and cunningness he could deal with, after years and _years_ of practice, but a pair of hopeful, suppliant eyes proved to be a weapon of an entirely different dimension. At twenty-seven, he was a don well-established in his domain and beyond, within his grasp such power most people dared not even imagine existing—and still ‘no’ remained the hardest word he ever tried to say.

Today marked a great celebration: the birth of his first child, now a baby daughter of two months old. It was held in the Family villa in Napoli and everyone with the slightest affiliation to the Vongola suddenly turned up at his doorstep. His cheeks were aching from smiling constantly, too many guests leaving nothing but a flurry of names and faces at the fringe of his memory. His fingers were numb after countless handshakes and his stock of excuses steadily diminished with each request delivered and favour expected from the powerful, magnanimous Vongola Decimo.

 _Surely such auspicious occasion merits a trifle of generosity, a joyous day and a rebuff must not go hand-in-hand, and happiness is best shared with friends and Family…_

With a deep sigh, Tsuna turned his gaze toward one corner of the garden—swamped with flowers at this time of the year. Under a latticed canopy of green vines and tiny purple blossoms, Kyoko sat with their daughter in her arms, resplendent in silver and pink. He could feel his heart warming at the sight. If he ever needed a reason to withstand hours of formality and unending smiles, all he had to do was glance at his wife and daughter. Even after two years of marriage, he still thanked God every morning for this miracle, a spot of light in his otherwise dark, sinister life.

A sudden swell of sounds rose from the arced entry of the garden, drawing his attention. Tsuna felt a genuine smile dawning on his face; finally, someone with whom he did not have to pretend. Dino wore brightness like a timeless cloak and its effect was evident in the cheerful faces which had suddenly gathered around him. He was carrying the two-year-old Adriano in his arm, father and son easily charming the other guests with identical grins and good looks. His wife was beaming at their side, stunning in a green-and-yellow summer dress.

It was the sight of her which made Tsuna’s smile falter, but only for a moment. Nothing would ruin today, not even the thought of his Cloud Guardian.

 

—

 

3.

The Resort _Corona di Rose_ was easily one of the most extravagant and most pretentious places Carlo had ever set his feet on.

“ _Agente_ Giancarlo Rinaldi,” he introduced himself to the manager as soon as they had arrived. He was a handsome man about forty with impeccable manner, well-dressed and refined in ways expected from a man who ran the most luxurious resort in Napoli. He was eager to help, yes, a murder was without doubt appalling, which was why it could easily ruin a reputation carefully built for so many years. As for information of their other guests, it was absolutely out of the question. Nothing less than a court order would be necessary, as their clients valued privacy above all else and had indeed paid good money for it.

Carlo left Dani to come up with a convincing argument on his own and made his way toward the crime scene. The bungalow was situated at the end of a solitary path, grand and haughty in appearance. Its interior was an incredible feat of design and lavishness, the Baroque style dominated by white and gold colours which would catch even the most indifferent eyes. An exquisite _quadratura_ decorated the arced ceiling, and directly underneath, lay the body of the victim, near unrecognisable for the handsome actor he had been.

Carlo introduced himself to the medical examiner on duty and received details on the cause of death—blunt force trauma from severe beatings received over and over again on the head. The skull was fractured and there were also many other broken bones all over the body, among them clavicles, sternums, and ribs. The force was excessive but meticulously applied, most likely by someone used to violence.

“What about the time of death?”

“Between one and four in the morning judging from the rigor mortis. The damage to the body in general makes it hard to tell any clearer.”

It was then that Dani came to join them, his face folded in displeasure. “Stubborn jackass,” he swore, voice rumbling low in his throat. “Court order, no deal. But he did say that currently only thirty percent of the bungalows were occupied and he had conducted his own ‘discreet’ questioning. So far, no one has admitted to seeing or hearing anything.”

Carlo frowned. “One to four a.m. How was it possible that no one heard anything? A place like this is pretty much quiet all the time, let alone at night.”

“He might have been knocked unconscious first,” the examiner suggested.

“He might have been,” Carlo conceded, but his frown did not smooth away. “The next bungalow is about twenty metres away. Unoccupied?”

“The manager said so,” Dani mumbled abstractedly, his attention entirely absorbed by the scene of the crime. The body had been removed, but the amount of blood staining the floor and many expensive pieces of furniture was more than enough proof that brutality had occurred in this place. Carlo noticed the expression on his partner’s face and raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“Something is not right.”

“Something missing from the room?”

Dani shook his head slowly. “No, nothing like that. I can’t quite place it, but something is off.”

“The location of the body? The blood? The bruises?”

“The bruises.” Dani looked at him, now with a matching frown. “Beating someone to death indicates something personal, a vendetta maybe. If the examiner was right and the victim had been unconscious at the time of the murder, then it wasn’t about inflicting fear. So why beat an unconscious man to death?”

“To kill him.”

“Then why not just shot him? Beating is a messy and largely ineffective method to murder someone.”

Carlo did not respond. Instead, he left the bungalow and approached the manager who had been waiting outside in a faultless display of willing assistance. Dani’s footsteps were hastily following him.

“Look, Carlo, a place like this isn’t just for anybody, but _that_ in there is definitely violence, which is not something you’d expect to see in a five-star resort. Also, that sort of violence indicates anger, lots of anger exploding at once– what are you doing?”

Ignoring his partner completely, Carlo addressed the manager. “We saw a large property next to this resort when we arrived, _Signor_ Gattuso. Can you tell us what that is?”

A flicker of discomfort passed over the manager’s face, but it was quickly schooled back into an expression of polite indifference. “A private one, _Agente_ Rinaldi,” he answered, all practiced calm. “A villa.”

“And it belongs to the resort’s owner?”

Gattuso smiled, an icily courteous smile. “That I am not at liberty to say.”

“Thank you,” Carlo nodded stonily at him. He did not expect anything less from these people. Gattuso withdrew after murmuring a polite excuse, leaving Dani looking curiously at him.

“What was that about?”

Carlo heaved a deep breath. “I happen to know who owns the villa.”

 

—

 

4.

Dino swept his gaze over the ground below for the hundredth time and once again suppressed a sigh.

Dusk was twined about the garden, highlighting the last beauty of summer as the day drew to a close. Only some of the guests remained, close friends who were invited to a private dinner by the Vongola Decimo. Past the shutter’s filigree, he could see his wife sitting with Kyoko on a long settee, Adriano peacefully asleep on her lap. Their occasional laughs punctuated the air as they conversed in low voices, perhaps discussing the possibility of an arrangement between Adriano and Mariko; Dino had to smile at the thought.

Georgina came from the powerful Russo Family in the United States, the second daughter of the Don himself and a very attractive woman in her own right. Despite his initial reasons to marry her four years ago, Dino could readily admit now that he loved her and their son as much as any husband and father could. He had always loved easily, never in halves—sometimes a deplorable weakness, as Romario had pointed out once and yet there had been such fondness in his voice. In Georgina, he found more reasons to be grateful than unhappy, and for his right-hand man, it was the most important thing, far better than the agony he had endured years prior.

It still did not stop Dino from thinking about roads not taken, every time he looked up and watched the slow glide of the clouds on sky’s canvas.

“She isn’t here, Dino-san.”

Tsuna’s soft voice made him tear his eyes away from the window, back to the room’s warm golden glow. The tight sympathy clouding Tsuna’s face was a painful sight, only thinly concealed by shadows cast by his unruly bangs, and Dino had to make an effort not to flinch.

“I’m sorry, Tsuna,” his voice was neutral, echoing lies. “We were talking about Don Russo, right?”

He was never the most subtle of men, but Dino allowed himself a little relief when Tsuna played along and pretended that he had not noticed the abrupt change of subject. “Yes,” he replied instead. “You were saying that he had contacted you just yesterday about the deal.”

“That’s right.” The cooled wine had warmed in his hand and Dino set his glass down on the window sill; the thought of his father-in-law always brought the sharp taste of disgust in his mouth. “He asked for fifteen percent of the revenue, but I think we can give him that. As long as he keeps his end of the bargain.”

“I agree.” Tsuna’s nod was swift, decisive. He had grown into a man hardened and capable, without losing the edge of kindness which his mother had long instilled in him. It was with the same thoughtful face when he finally broke the lengthy silence and looked at Dino with sad, haunted eyes. “Gambling isn’t actually any better, is it?”

Dino would have smiled in encouragement, had the subject allowed it. He only shrugged, courting an escape. “I’ll take that over drugs anytime.”

Tsuna’s short laugh was entirely devoid of mirth. “You’re right. Drugs are much worse, and so long as we have no other option available–”

 _–we’ll choose the lesser between two evils._ Dino smiled then, a thin stretch of bitterness and resignation. He could not remember the last time when the battle fought had been between good and bad. Reborn had been right, as always; good and bad were siblings, different, yet still the branches of the same tree. The eternal crusade in their world was between good and right—and the Mafia, a legacy built on the art of killing and fear, was never good.

 

—

 

5.

Gina Saluzzo struck Dani as a woman used to bloodshed. Dressed in a solemn grey suit, she did not look at all out of place in the gloom of Carlo’s office. There was certain callousness in her undertone when she spoke, much like the feel of barbed fence that encircled a burial ground of all things harrowing and ugly. Perhaps working long enough in the _Guardia di Finanza_ would do that to anyone. A pity, Daniele thought, for she was beautiful, even with her excessively formal attire and glaring lack of makeup.

“I have been informed by my superior that you want to meet the boss of the Vongola,” was her greeting when she came in, her footsteps brisk and decisive.

Carlo offered her a seat and proceeded to explain the situation in his concise, methodical way. Dani satisfied himself with watching expressions shift on Gina’s face, scepticism first giving way to incredulity and then plain derision, which took shape into a ghost of a smirk on her lips.

“It doesn’t seem likely,” she said bluntly as soon as Carlo had finished. “These people do not touch civilians, not even during a Mafia war. Unless you can find a connection between this actor and any member of the Vongola, I say you’re wasting your time.”

“But these are men who lived and breathed violence,” Carlo argued. “As you can see in the pictures here, only someone used to violence could do these murders. Also, there is the fact that the Vongola owns that resort—the manager practically said so.”

Gina’s eyes flicked from picture to picture. If she was at all affected by the grotesque bruises and disfigured faces, then she did not make the slightest reaction—at least none noticeable by the eyes. Dani had to wonder how many dead bodies she had encountered while working for the organised crime department.

“You are at least correct in that assumption, I’ll give you that,” she said at last, her attention back to Carlo. “We know for sure that the resort belongs to the Family, but it only makes your theory even more impossible.”

“How so?” Dani asked curiously.

Her eyes now found him—austere green, mellowed somewhat by the tanned colour of her skin. “One thing you need to learn about these Men of Honour: they are _never_ obvious. Not unless they have no other way. What possible emergency could a musician and an actor be causing them that they had no choice but to resort to killing the latter in a place owned by the Family? There are ‘safer’ ways to dispose a dead body, in which these people are proficient.”

Dani’s lips thinned into a stern line, a sign of stubbornness. “There must be a connection. We just haven’t been able to detect any so far.”

Gina rose to her feet. “Then good luck trying to find it. Meanwhile I’ll wait in my–”

“The victims are males between thirty and forty years of age,” he interrupted, meeting her baleful glare unflinching, “all with blond hair and a fairly good-looking face. So far we’ve discovered three of them, but if you care to turn around, our technical officer may be able to give you more, judging from the look of her face.”

Both Agente Saluzzo and Carlo turned around. Dani shot a quick smile at Norma Castelli who was standing in the doorway with an apprehensive look, a few brown folders clutched in front of her chest. Like nearly everyone else in her profession, she wore the air of the overworked, her shoulder-length brown hair hanging limp and unkempt, framing an aquiline face and a pair of tired eyes.

“You’ve got more?” Carlo demanded at once.

“I found two more potential victims,” Norma said, stepping into the office. “Blond hair, handsome face, all the same criteria. One murder occurred three months ago in the town of Palo del Colle, near Bari—outside our provincial jurisdiction, I know, but you told me to look everywhere.

He nodded. “I did. And the other one?”

“Almost a year ago, in Palermo.”

Dani could feel a smirk quirking his lips. “There you have it,” he waved a hand at Saluzzo, holding her hard gaze. “Sicilia, terra delle Mafia.”

“Not everything that happens in Palermo is connected to the Mafia,” she pointed out but resumed her seat in front of the desk. Some of her ridicule had vanished, replaced by a sort of grim fierceness which Dani had seen only too often in his partner’s face.

“But there is no harm in trying,” Carlo retaliated only too readily. “Even if they have nothing to do with it, we can probably discover something by talking to the Don. The resort belongs to him.”

Gina pursed her lips, unconvinced. “These people are accomplished liars. Yes, everything they say usually has a grain of truth in it, but they spin it in such a way that we must decipher every word, every tone, _every nuance_ , and ultimately guess what they actually meant. In their world, nothing comes for free, least of all truths.”

Dani raised his eyebrows. “If you know them so well, then we definitely can use your help.”

She did not respond to his sarcasm, although her heavy gaze settled on him for a long moment. “I can try to contact them,” she said at last, her tone only slightly softened, “but whether or not they are willing to cooperate is not up to me.”

Carlo nodded. “That is all we ask, _Agente_ Saluzzo.”

Gina said nothing. Her eyes once more wandered to the pictures tacked on the whiteboard, taking in various details of the victims. When she finally turned to look at them, there was a light in her eyes which he had not noticed before.

“A word of advice,” her voice was calm, disturbingly so, as she speared Carlo with a steady look. “All your victims are males. If these murders prove to have nothing to do with the Mafia, you should start considering the possibility that you are looking for a woman.”

 

—

 

6.

“The _Polizia_?”

“Yes, _Agente_ Saluzzo from the _Finanza_ contacted me this morning,” Gokudera explained as the guarded look on Tsuna’s face became more pronounced. “She said she was acting as a liaison with the _Polizia_. They had a few questions about the murder that happened yesterday in _Corona di Rose_ , nothing more.”

The news of the murder had reached them yesterday, during the party, but Gokudera had made sure that not a hint of it came close within the Tenth’s five-metre radius, at least until the celebration was over. Then he spent the better part of the day—and night—trying to prove that it had nothing to do with the Family—which, with more than ten thousand members under their name, was not a remotely straightforward feat. So far, no connection had come to light, no indication of anything sinister which they had not been aware before. Tsuna remained uneasy, the lack of knowing a peculiarity now that he was used to a seat so high, with so many eyes and ears to watch and listen.

“Do you think they’re telling the truth?” Tsuna asked, the afternoon sun falling slant on his face from the opened window as he glanced at his right-hand man.

Gokudera frowned. “It is unlikely that they know about Provenzano. We were thorough with him.”

Unlike a few months ago, now the Tenth barely winced at the name of the man he had murdered. “Of course, Hayato,” he said instead, a withered hint of a smile on his face. “I don’t doubt you.”

And unlike a few years ago, now Gokudera only accepted the praise in silence; it was one of those which could never put a smile on his face, no matter how many times he had carried out the deed. There were hundreds of ways a body could be made disappear off the face of the earth, each subtly different from the next, each efficient, each discreet. By now, he must have become one of the best in the field.

“I have no plan for tomorrow,” Tsuna said again, hands gathered in resolution behind his back. “I suppose we can see what they want then.”

Gokudera nodded in acknowledgment. “I shall arrange the meeting, Tenth.”

He returned the call in his bedroom, taking the chance to trade barrages of sarcasm with Gina Saluzzo every few sentences. She served the justice system and he served the Tenth; they would die first before the other could win. One thing for sure, a mere few ‘questions’ or not, he was going to be there in the room with the Tenth. It was his duty, his right, his privilege.

 

—

 

7.

Carlo had never met a Mafia Don for real. ‘These people’, as he continually referred to them in his head, lived in a world which both existed and not between the country’s everyday struggle, a periphery lingering just outside general perspective. He still remembered the incident which had put them front and centre for the first time in history. He had been nineteen, a brilliant and opinionated student in the police academy, and he had just finished supper alone in his small, rented room when the television had broadcasted the news of magistrate Giovanni Falcone’s death.

 _The Mafia is a human phenomenon and thus, like all human phenomena, it has had a beginning and an evolution, and will also have an end._

On the next day, everyone was cursing the Mafia, the evil which had brought such atrocity and shame to their country.

Tsunayoshi Sawada was not at all like Carlo had imagined. He was a small man in comparison to those who stood around him, his manner welcoming and his politeness far from affected. Dressed in a polo shirt and chinos, he gave the exact impression of a young father about to spend a pleasant evening with his family. His Italian was slightly accented but otherwise faultless, and if it had not been for his eyes, Carlo doubted he would have spared the man a second look should they have passed each other on the streets.

Gina Saluzzo was not unknown in the underworld. She sat apart from the rest of them, holding a glaring contest with one of Don Vongola’s subordinates, a young man with silver-grey hair and a pair of suspicious eyes. She only glanced away from him when she nodded at the mention of her name, ignoring the Don’s outstretched hand.

“A murder is always appalling,” Tsunayoshi Sawada said after the respectful introductions—it almost sounded like he meant it, if Carlo had not known better. “I will do everything I can to help the investigation.”

“We are grateful, sir,” Carlo replied civilly although he did not smile. “As I understand, you are the owner of the resort _Corona di Rose_?”

The grey-haired young man made a sound through his noise and a hint of a smile quivered on Don Vongola’s lips. “It is collectively owned by a group of stockholders,” he answered calmly. “I am only one of them.”

What Sawada had conveniently omitted was the fact that the rest of the ‘stockholders’ were all his underlings. Saluzzo had briefed him on the subject on their way to the villa and Carlo was more than willing to take her words on it.

“The murder victim was a famous actor. Were you by any chance personally acquainted with him?”

“No.”

“But you have seen him in the movies?”

The Don smiled, a little sheepish. “I’m afraid I have yet to be able to master the art of appreciating Italian movies. I’m still learning.”

The interrogation continued for another twenty minutes. Sawada remained polite, his answers innocent if slightly rehearsed—but so far Carlo discovered no real reason to accuse him of anything. Gina had been right. As long as they had not found any connection between Vongola and the murders, it was unlikely they could ever make a dent on the wall of composure that was Don Vongola.

He restrained a long, frustrated sigh and continued. “Just a few more questions. We are also investigating another murder in Salerno, which victim was similarly beaten to death. Is there anyone, any acquaintance of yours who was here yesterday and also in Salerno around three months ago?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

 _But you do,_ Carlo thought, the rush of triumph scorching hot in his veins at the involuntary flutter of the Don’s eyelashes.

 

—

 

8.

Georgina Cavallone knew, better than anyone, that her husband was not in love with her.

Love was unusual in a marriage such as theirs, but Dino Cavallone was, in many ways, an unusual man. He had charmed his way into her heart with the ease of an expert magician despite her prior knowledge of his profession. Brought up in the long shadow cast by her father’s business, she knew what a Mafioso was capable of, let alone a Mafia Don—and still she accepted his proposal.

Their courtship had been a quick one, orchestrated by business pressure and mutual interest rather than any affection from their parts. To this day, Georgina still could not fathom why he had chosen to shower his attention to her and not her elder, fair-haired sister, around whom men always flocked. Before, she had decided not to care. It had been an advantageous marriage—and even better, it had brought envy to Catherine’s eyes. Little else mattered.

That a new life overseas presented greater difficulties than what she could have foreseen was but the first of her problems. The differences between people she had grown up with and the ones she was now living amongst were anything but superficial; they were cultural, fundamental, as different as the Sicilian balmy breeze and New York’s winter bite. While rumours and careless talks poured freely in the streets ruled by her father, the Italian Mafia was a world of silence. To speak was to bear the weight of each voiced word, to risk every lilt, inflection, and born interpretation. To listen was to understand, above, under, and most importantly, _between_ the lines.

In its centre was Dino—loving, attentive, gentle to a fault, and for so powerful a man, he certainly went into great lengths to make her feel welcome. Visits to museums, a part of their honeymoon and now monthly dates, was but one of many, as well as a studio in their house for her own artistic pursuits. Before, Georgina had only smiled and thought of her comfort as a covenant, her happiness no more than currency. Their two Families gained much from the marriage and it was the truth. She had not allowed herself to believe his kindness, but there was no reason not to enjoy a convenient arrangement as long as it lasted.

And then one morning, she had woken up and realised that she had fallen in love.

“ _Mamma_?”

Adriano’s whining voice carried softly to her ears, his two-year-old vocabulary not yet smoothed by practice. One small hand creased the hem of her dress and she turned her attention from her sketchbook to the toy truck with a skewed front wheel clutched in his left hand. He was looking at her, grave and expectant, but all it took was a definite sound of the door opening for both broken toy and hopeful pout to suddenly dart out of her reach.

“ _Papà_!”

Georgina remained seated, watching Adriano climb into his father’s arms. The way Dino’s grin bloomed and widened made her heart twist, especially with the knowledge that when he smiled at her, it would be warmth and affection and many other things but the one passion she wanted the most. It was unfair and every day she blamed him for it, except Georgina realised that it was her fault as much as his. She should have known better. He was what he was, and a Mafia Don did not risk himself and his position by playing with love. Their marriage, no matter how useful, was as much a business agreement as the next deal.

All the same, every time Dino’s lips brushed her cheek, then lips, she could not help but wade into hope.

 

—

 

9.

“Last one. This makes them eight in total.”

Triumphantly, Dani tossed the last folder on top of the jumbled pile which was strewn all over Carlo’s desk. Norma, who had spent two days going over every unsolved murder case in the country, only managed to look wearied and vaguely nauseated, the breaking point of her horror long since passed. At the head of the table, Gina still kept to her silence as she had done throughout the meeting.

Carlo was standing in front of the lines of whiteboards which now spanned the entire length of the room; they had to accommodate enough details of all the cases. “How did we not notice a pattern until now?” he demanded, almost to himself.

“These murders did not exactly occur in the same city,” Dani reminded him. “Hell, not even in the same province. Whoever did these must have travelled a lot.”

“To say the least,” mumbled Norma.

“The key is they’re all men.” Dani leant back into his chair, for the hundredth time going over the dead faces paraded on the board. “Around thirty or forty, blond—only three of them were natural blonds, but still—and relatively good-looking.”

Norma shot him a sceptical look. “So the murderer is someone who hates good-looking blond men?”

He grinned at her. “It’s a start.”

“She’s right.” Carlo stalked down to the other end of the board, frowning. “We still don’t know enough at this point. We don’t even have a clear suspect, Mafia or not. But we do know now that these cases are connected, so maybe if we try talking to the witnesses again–”

“There is a man,” Gina suddenly broke her silence, “who fits that description. And he is affiliated with the Vongola.”

Dani glanced at his partner, whose frown had deepened at the sudden piece of news instead of easing a bit. “A member of the Family?”

“No, an ally—an important one at that.”

“It’s a connection,” he decided. Gina nodded and rose to her feet.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

—

 

10.

A retainer was different from a subordinate. Kusakabe Tetsuya recognised the gap between one shore and the other the moment he had followed Hibari Kyouya beyond Namimori’s gilded cage. A retainer could be many things, but most important of all, he was a servant, and a good servant must always be an observer.

A good servant is observant. A pattern, however subtle, should never escape his notice.

It always began with flats, never hotels. Common knowledge said that no one answered ‘no’ to Hibari Kyouya, but just how far she could get her way was, in reality, still open for discussions. Tetsu knew better than to amuse himself with those idle talks, after everything he had seen with his own eyes. Domains or boundaries meant next to nothing to Hibari barring her own. She would walk in, unchallenged, and anyone unfortunate enough—or _fortunate_ enough, as subjectivity allowed—to be inside the room with her would give her what she wanted. So far, no one had defied this law, not even Sawada Tsunayoshi.

Tetsu waited outside the luxurious apartment building, leaning against the car with a bag of sunflower seeds in hand and wondering if Sasagawa Ryouhei’s wife knew. She always struck him as an intelligent, perceptive woman, and her husband was decidedly no liar from any angle. Pity, for Hibari would not care if she did know; she had not cared about Sawada Kyoko or Miura Haru, and he doubted she would begin to care if she decided on either of their men next week, next month, next strike of her fancy.

In a way, not to be chosen by her was probably a privilege. Tetsu smiled wryly. It would have been perfect if he had not wanted her so, the ache of his desire a constant simmer even as he lay with the most beautiful girl he could afford, between the most perfect pair of legs. Kyou-san would _feel_ different, he often mused, but she would never touch him; in that way, Kusakabe Tetsuya was special.

The tryst never took her more than half an hour, often less. He would drive her back afterwards, watching the shift of shadows on her face from the rear-view mirror and torn between overwhelming curiosity, deep-rooted reverence, and unspeakable jealousy. Her thoughts were her own, as were her intents.

A few days later, a man would die.

Tetsu watched and wondered, but never asked. He was a retainer, a servant, an observer, and above all, a privileged man. He would never trade this sight of his mistress for anything else: Hibari Kyouya at her most beautiful, when her body had been sated and yet the rest of her still hungered, pace firm and measured as she walked toward him and the car door he was holding open. Her grey eyes were a pair of dark veils, but so thick a veil had only ever concealed darker things—angry, desperate battles, even tiny seeds of madness. Tetsu prided himself in the knowledge, despite everything. He was a privileged man.

“We’re going back,” she spoke coolly when he had taken his seat behind the wheel. It would not be long before she hunted for the next unlucky victim, the next man who was cursed by sheer physicality. A pattern never differed.

“Yes, Kyou-san,” Tetsu murmured, both grateful and miserable for his ordinary black hair.

 

—

 

11.

Despite Dani’s grim prognosis, their journey from the Falcone-Borsellino Airport was uneventful. Neither of them had ever been to Sicilia before, and the brown rise of hills gave them pause for a long moment as the car sped away from Palermo. The bleakness beguiled like a sad song, heavy under the restless howl of the wind. Carlo could almost feel that he understood the bloody, convoluted history of the island simply by looking at the emptiness.

The ride took them a little over an hour. The estate, one of many which belonged to Dino Cavallone, extended over far too many acres for his eyes to measure. He seethed at the thought of so much wealth belonging to thieves and killers, while honest, hardworking men toiled day in and day out for just enough bread on their tables. His hostility only sharpened as the manse came into view from the driveway, lined with tall cypress trees. Sunbeams sparked off white marble and angled roof, bathing the landscape in light and hues. Here was money, he thought disdainfully, old money and lots of it.

The man who greeted them was polite enough. He carried himself like a soldier, Carlo noticed, with a strong, stiff gait and practised vigilance. They were brought into an office on the first floor, all dark colours and sharp formality. He privately wondered what it meant, just as he had wondered what sort of man Dino Cavallone was since Saluzzo had made the connection.

His answer came through the door one minute later, neatly dressed in a dark-blue designer suit. Carlo’s first impression was, if Tsunayoshi Sawada could easily blend into the crowd should he wish so, Cavallone was the exact opposite. His gaze was immediately drawn to the handsome face and golden hair, and his mind automatically ran the comparisons with each photograph tacked on his whiteboard. A face was not a reason to kill, but a resemblance could be, clear or passing. It was the hair: they were all of the same shade of gold, and eight were too much of a coincidence, no matter what Gina Saluzzo said.

Once they had finished their introductions, his partner settled into the background to observe and Carlo began with his prepared overture. The murder in the resort was their only link to the Mafia, however thin. Cavallone was coolly sympathetic as he listened, but far from surprised; Sawada had probably told him about his own ‘visit’ three days ago.

“I’m not sure if I can help you gentlemen,” he said when Carlo had paused, long enough to provoke a remark. His lips were curled into a faint smile, not enough to affront but certainly not as innocent as it seemed. “Or is it my alibi which has compelled you to come so far from Napoli?”

“It will certainly help our investigation, sir.”

His nod was casual, unhurried. “I was invited to the party Don Vongola held to celebrate the birth of his daughter. My family and I arrived in Napoli at two o’clock in the afternoon and we directly went to the villa from the airport.”

“And the night before?”

“I was here, asleep.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm this?”

The Don’s smile sharpened a notch. “My wife can—if the word of a spouse carries enough weight in a murder case. What is exactly my position right now?”

Carlo met his gaze levelly. “A person of interest.”

“Interests vary, _Agente_ Rinaldi.”

Cavallone was baiting him, and the nudge was persistent enough, obvious enough to stir suspicion in Carlo’s mind. Trusting his judgment, he decided to reveal a few more of his cards, gambling on the Don’s reaction as he described five of the eight linked murders and their victims. If Cavallone had anything to do with them, then at least he would know that they _knew._

The other man’s expression was perfectly impassive by the time Carlo had finished—was he guilty or merely wary? Carlo could not decide. Even his eyes betrayed nothing other than a hint of polite curiosity.

“So this isn’t about one murder case, but several.”

“The similarities of the victims suggest that the murders are connected.”

“By hair colour.”

“Yes,” Carlo said firmly, ready to defend his position if need be. But there was no trace of ridicule in Don Cavallone’s face, his mask still securely in place.

“And I suppose it makes me a possible victim.”

“A part of our duty is to protect, sir.” _Even though you are a thief and a killer_ , Carlo did not say. The other man seemed to hear it regardless, and his indifference suddenly melted into a smile.

“My gratitude, _Agente_ ,” he replied, his voice cool, civil, and sending shivers down Carlo’s spine.

 

—

 

12.

The departure of the police officers brought some relief to Romario but very little else. As the faithful right-hand man of an influential Mafia Don, he was naturally suspicious of those so-called arms of justice and their intents, however cloaked, layered, and honeyed. In his experience, a murder investigation was as good subterfuge as the next to cover the real reason of their visit; he would have to find out what it was as soon as possible.

After seeing the guests back to the front door, Romario returned to the small office—in actuality a spare room which was deliberately kept and reserved solely for misleading purposes, his own idea a few years back. Dino had abandoned the sofa to stand by the window, a frown now apparent in his face. Romario closed the door quietly and waited, knowing his boss would speak when he decided to.

Eventually Dino tore his gaze from the window, the square of his shoulders weighed down by invisible burden. “I want you to find out more about these murders,” he said, eyes steady on Romario. “Especially about the victims and how they died. Hack into their system if you must.”

Now Romario frowned. “Are you worried, Boss?”

“I have to make sure.” Dino’s voice was edged. “What do you think? Did those murders have anything to do with me?”

Romario considered the question and its implications. Dino had never gone behind his back—at least to his knowledge—but sometimes he could not help but wonder. There had been incidents which contributed a little too favourably to their side, their timings a little too precise. Dino had not said anything, but why should he, as long as they were to the Family’s advantage?

“No,” Romario answered at last, only partially truthful. “It doesn’t seem possible. Maybe there’s a serial killer at work, but I doubt they can pose any threat to you, Boss.”

Dino flashed him a smile, if small and strained. “If you look at them from that angle, I have no choice but to agree.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The other possibility. Say it wasn’t the work of a serial killer.”

 _Ah._ Romario caught the gist of the problem at once. Dino’s reputation in relation to civilians was well-known and had been alleged numerous times as a grave weakness. A hostile, desperate party might just see it as an opening.

And yet, he reflected, what a desperate, harebrained scheme it was, even in the most extraordinary circumstances. “No one in their right mind would try to catch your attention or get back at you by killing people who looked like you, Boss—if that’s what you have in mind.”

“They certainly have my attention right now,” Dino said dryly.

Romario shook his head, doubtful. “It doesn’t seem very likely. To be honest I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

Again, that smile. He still remembered where Dino had learned it first, back then an exercise of tolerance against overwhelming selfishness—one that still haunted him until now, that accursed name. “I agree. It’s stupid and arrogant to think that they have anything to do with me, but I need to be sure. Just do me a favour and look into it, Romario.”

Romario nodded, brief and assuring; as if there was ever any need to ask. “Of course, Boss, no worries.”

 

—

 

13.

“So the key question is this.” Dani raised his feet to settle on an unoccupied chair and looked around at his colleagues, all plagued by the same drained look. It was almost midnight and the taste of stale coffee was as thick as bile in his mouth. “Are these murders the work of a serial killer or a series of Mafia hits?”

“Maybe they’re both,” Norma mumbled, stifling a yawn.

“They can’t be both,” Carlo said sternly. “Either they are personal, or they are not. I’m leaning toward the former myself. You were right.” He turned a pair of grave eyes to Gina’s direction. “These men did not seem to have anything to do with the Mafia, no matter how deep we dug into their backgrounds. And there are the murders themselves, which don’t feel like professional hits at all. Too messy. Too much emotion involved and we’re talking about _eight_ murders.”

“Except they occurred in places with prominent Mafia activities,” Dani reminded them as he swirled the lukewarm content of his mug, wishing for a decent espresso.

“There’s that, yes, but the Mafia is a disease—it’s everywhere.”

He shrugged, tempted to smile. “What did Mister Bond say again? Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action. Eight times, I don’t know, but someone definitely needs to pay.”

Only Norma seemed to appreciate his late-night wit, a smile gently lighting up her troubled face. Carlo, far from amused, shot him a withering glare instead. “The fact is there’s no definite proof. We can’t waste manpower chasing phantoms.”

“Cavallone _has_ something to do with these murders,” Dani insisted. “Maybe I have no proof—yet—but I saw his face when you told him about the victims. You told me to watch him, so now I’m telling you: he knew who did these, or at least he suspected someone. We should put surveillance on him.”

“You want to put surveillance on a Mafia boss?” Gina sounded both sarcastic and amused, the edges of her lips quirked. Dani suppressed the familiar itch which he had come to associate with the _Finanza_ agent and stared her amusement down.

“We have interrogated practically everyone. At least three witnesses placed a man wearing a black suit in the vicinity of these victims—specifically the second, third, and sixth—but other than that, we have very little to go on.”

“The old woman living in the apartment above the fifth victim’s said that it was a _woman_ in black,” Norma reminded him.

“She’s seventy-eight.” Dani waved a dismissive hand, but then noticed his partner’s cold look and quickly added, “But yes, we should consider both possibilities because, who knows? All I’m sure of is that Cavallone is involved in some way.”

Carlo rose from his seat, indicating the end of the meeting. “Fine. Let Tucci and his team handle the surveillance. Meanwhile, we’ll pursue the serial killer angle and go over the whole timeline once more tomorrow specifically from that angle. 10 o’clock sharp. Nora,” he fixed the female officer with a solemn look, “keep an eye open for any reported homicide which may look like the work of our killer. Most likely he isn’t done yet.”

Dani raised his eyebrows. “Or she.”

“Or she,” the other man agreed

 

—

 

14.

From an open window on the second floor, Hibari Kyouya watched the quaint street laid under her feet. In the warm summer afternoon, it was flooded with sunlight but empty of pedestrians, everyone content to stay in the cool shelter of their homes. One of the few saving graces of Italy was its lack of human throngs—unlike Japan, with its masses moving against each other, the cities choking themselves with people. Growing up under such siege of numbers which only swelled every day, she could understand the wish to eradicate, could sense it in the length of her tonfa now and again.

The small apartment was a recent addition to her collection. Only Tetsu knew, his silence as stiffly guarded as the unquenchable thirst he bore for her, each without complaint. She would have smirked, to his face and in private, but so great a loyalty did not deserve the mockery. (Not yet, at least. He was still of some use to her.)

The new place was yet another proof, carefully selected to suit her wishes. A new location meant a fresh hunting ground—but such brightness. Kyouya eyed the sky with distaste, a clear stretch of unrepentant blue with no cloud in sight. Thus unhindered, the fierce glare of the sun touched every surface and sharpened all colours. Black was the sole survivor, omnipotent, all-consuming, all-powerful.

Gold was simply insolent, and yet the boldness of that colour lured her. She watched as a shadow stepped into the road. A man. That man. It was the third time she had seen him in the past two weeks—always visiting the same bakery, always leaving with a paper bag in hand, always whistling a carefree tune.

And that hair. That colour.

Today his pace slowed, almost to a stop, and he looked up with a hand shielding his eyes, as if aware of her scrutiny. The tune faltered, ebbed, and then disappeared entirely as his lips curved into a small smile.

Her eyes slitted, finding their mark.

 

—

 

15.

It took less than a week for a _Polizia_ officer from this branch to finally make a comment on her origin.

Gina’s lips thinned into a thin, irritated line, but she was far from surprised. The gibe was old by now, its barb an overused echo of past rage. She had endured more than her fair share of sarcasm from her colleagues in the _Finanza_. That she had been born a Sicilian was a fact which played as both an advantage and a demerit in her line of work. She was an asset because she was familiar with the place, the people, their customs, and their way of thinking. On the offset was a widely known fact that most powerful Families in the Mafia had spies in virtually every government institution. It had taken her boss _years_ to stop glancing at her direction whenever a leak had happened.

What did astonish her was the fact that neither Carlo Rinaldi nor Daniele Verro looked very surprised by the revelation. Instead, Rinaldi nodded his thanks to the officer who had made the comment for his ‘insight’ and then slammed the door in his face.

Once her surprise had worn off, Gina confronted them about it. Her question received both an amused look and an impatient one. “Your accent,” Rinaldi replied offhandedly, attention already elsewhere, but Verro grinned when he said, “The way you talked about the island. Only a birthplace can receive so much hate—or love.”

At that point, she was forced to admit that these men might know what they were doing after all. She had raised an eyebrow at their working method—so different from her own methodical, proof-oriented approach--and then at their cramped offices and small meeting rooms, not to mention inadequate equipments. But while the _Finanza_ might be dealing with the most notorious of criminal organisations, this, _here_ , was the arm that wrestled with the scum of the streets every day. They were the reason general order still prevailed. In a way, the job was more admirable, although she would never admit it out loud.

“It doesn’t matter. But this,” Rinaldi waved a hand toward the whiteboard, frustration crawling all over his voice, “ _this_ matters. And we can’t see what is happening here.”

Proof was what they lacked, although no one wished to say it. Proof was always the key: to unravel a case, to open a trial, to win the argument, and to finally put bars between evil and the rest of society. Proof was the only way to drag these criminals to court—the requisite, the sine qua non.

If only they had more proof, Gina thought morosely.

At the next second, she was horrified to realise that she was hoping for another murder.

 

—

 

16.

The delicate tinkling of bells always reminded Dino to shrines and a land over the seas. Once, on a cloudy afternoon, he had passed under a tall, red gate, all narrow points and rigid angles, into a world of silence. There, in a courtyard of stone, he had seen that world unfold as the sound of wind and bells merged—as leaves, in their unbroken flight, spun and weaved a dazzling chaos all around him. No autumn in any other place could have been half as exquisite.

And Kyouya had been there, on the steps leading up to the shrine with her grey eyes on him, watching his quiet wonder bloom into full fascination. She had looked so beautiful, an indisputable part of the picture, and he still remembered what had followed—that night, him on a bended knee, her with such cold indifference which had sharpened into a derisive smirk as she turned away. It had been the first of twenty-six rejected proposals and each had only hurt more than the last.

The memory brought a pang which made Dino shuffle his feet, the tight rein he had steadily maintained every day, every second suddenly beginning to unravel. Being _here_ did not help. He looked up at the blur of blue-green canopy overhead; this tree was where he had once kissed Kyouya, leaves in their hair and twigs poking their cheeks. It was a good memory, if painful still.

Before him stood a small, seemingly empty house. A particularly thorough investigation would probably reveal that it belonged to the _Famiglia_ Vongola, but only a select few had the privilege to know that the house was no more than a camouflage. A derelict garden at the back of the house was of more importance than the house itself. Perpetually hidden by a trick of the Mist, it concealed an entrance to a hideout, one of many scattered across Europe.

Hibari Kyouya’s hideout.

Romario stood leaning against the car, his disapproval a wall of silence which had separated them since Dino had first mentioned his intention to see an old lover. A thoroughly conventional man in certain ways, he looked at the institution of marriage with respectful eyes, but even that still held no candle to his loyalty. One thing always came first and foremost to this man who had come as close a surrogate father to him as any subordinate could, and that was Dino’s own happiness. Hibari Kyouya, with her soul-searing smirk and steel-framed pride and boundless me-myself-and-I, would never be able to give him one.

 _“I trust you know what you’re doing, Boss.”_

 _“I just want to make sure.”_

Of what, would have been a prudent question, but Dino was glad that Romario had held his tongue. He had looked at the pictures his right-hand men had acquired in less than three days after requested. In the gloom of his office, with no other light but the pale glare of his laptop, the victim’s photos had spoken clearly to him. How often he had seen those bruises, the same discolour straddling his chest, thighs, arms; and that shade of gold, in his mirror every morning, afternoon, evening, much too familiar.

 _Damn it._

He had not seen Kyouya in years. A series of delicate, continuous arrangements between Romario and Kusakabe had made it possible despite his constant dealing with Tsuna as the head of an allied Family. Dino was not unaware that he was about to let those efforts all go to waste. But just this morning, amidst conversations of blackjack and gambling tricks, Tsuna had casually mentioned that his Cloud Guardian was here, in Palermo.

Dino knew better than to take it as an unfortunate slip of tongue. The Vongola Decimo was not as careless as that, especially after taking care not to mention her name for years. It had taken Dino the remaining of the day to argue over every possibility with himself, but with dusk, a decision had finally come to him.

This question needed an answer. He still harboured a flickering hope that it was all just one massive, ghastly coincidence, but a definite assurance was needed. The old green jacket he wore now was simply an indulgence.

 _Of what._ Again, Romario had not asked a single question, but this one hardly merited any. Dino laughed softly to himself, scornfully—if he was not the biggest hypocrite in the world. He still could not forget her. This was not about _happiness_ , had never been since the moment he had first stolen a kiss from her unguarded lips.

The light, mournful sound of bells once again reached his ears. The sun had long since disappeared and a hint of chill had set in, the scent of autumn lacing the air—but still there was no sign of Kyouya. He wondered if she knew, or probably Romario had mentioned it to Kusakabe. In any case, he would not be able to get in to the hideout— _any_ of her hideouts. Only two signature flames were allowed the key to open the entrance, the Cloud’s herself and Kusakabe Tetsuya’s. Even after everything, Dino had never earned himself that right.

That had been another clue for him, one he had constantly tried to dismiss with a laugh before reality became too stark to be smothered with nothing but genuine blindness. He had never meant anything to Kyouya, at least beyond a passable sparring partner. Or a bed warmer.

Except maybe he wasn’t. Dino tried not to feel rotten as he considered, for the thousandth time, what the murders might mean if Kyouya, if she had been the one who–

The sleek, black car made very little sound as it glided smoothly into the driveway and halted not far from where he was waiting. Dino could feel all the muscles in his body stiffen at the prospect of what would come, his carefully prepared preamble scattering like leaves in a windstorm. Kyouya had not noticed his presence and he watched, heart pounding, aching, as she descended from the backseat of the car. He recognised the once-familiar, effortless grace in the way she moved—like a cat, like a jaguar—and felt his throat tighten.

“Hello, Kyouya.”

His voice came out softer than he had intended, far too intimate. Kyouya stopped, but in the night’s thick shroud, Dino could not make much of her face except for its paleness and a pair of unsmiling lips.

They gave him more answers than he needed and raised myriads of new questions at the same time. For Kyouya would have frowned, would have grimaced, would have shown disgust at his sudden appearance, but she showed none of these. The mask was too thick, too perfect. A rush of bitter-amused-angry desperation lunged at him, but Dino forced himself to wait. For a reaction, a cue, _anything_. This was another question which needed an answer.

Kyouya did not give him any. Seconds ticked and she still did nothing because to flourish her tonfas and attack him would have been an admission to the past they had shared—and too many of those fights had ended with her on top of him, him inside her, slowly tautening her smirk into a stubborn line, shredding her self-control into breathless sighs. She turned away, her pace lengthening as she continued toward the house, and no entreaty falling from Dino’s lips could make her turn back and look at him.

Just like always.

 

—

 

17.

On the day he had first been introduced to Mario Tucci, eight years ago, Carlo had summed an impression about the man which had managed to persist to this day.

The impression was that he had _no_ impression at all.

Now a forty-three-year-old man of average height, average build, and average appearance, Tucci took his seat in front of him with the easy casualness of a colleague who had known each other too well for any difference of rank to matter. Outside the _Questura_ , however, he could blend into the crowd as easily as air and make himself invisible simply by rearranging his posture, his expression, his mannerism. It was a useful quality for a surveillance specialist, as the man himself had pointed out more than in a few occasions. Carlo had to agree—every small, unassuming profession he could conjure in his mind and Tucci would fit right in without anyone blinking an eye

Except a police officer. He was the last man on earth any film director would cast into the role of a police officer. It smacked so much of irony that Carlo allowed himself a slow, hidden smile at the thought.

“Your man is good,” Tucci began speaking the moment he had settled into a comfortable position, his tone as pragmatic as usual. “He alternates between obvious and elusive and that makes his movements hard to predict. He even managed to shake the tail a few times, which was regrettable for us, but at least that gave us ample information on what he was capable of. My boys are picking up the tricks, so I’m reasonably confident that none of those is going to happen again.”

Carlo drummed his fingers on the tabletop, the sound filling a moment’s silence. “So Cavallone knew that he was being followed.”

“Will bet my money on it.”

“What about the wife?”

“A typical rich man’s wife.” A distinct note of amusement filtered through Tucci’s usual screen of indifference. “Salons, shopping, spas, lunch parties, fancy dinners with husband’s arm around her slim waist. Life is good for _Signora_ Cavallone.”

“And that’s all there is to her?”

The matter-of-factness returned, along with a small, sombre frown as Tucci clasped both of his hands together on the desk. “Oddly, I’m not so certain about that,” he said slowly, as if the uncertainty forced him to carefully measure each word. “She seems to be a woman with the right kind of brains, if you know what I mean. My guess is there’s more to the spas and lunch parties than pasta and gossips, but that’s more of _Finanza_ ’s sphere than ours. You aren’t seriously considering this woman to be your murderer, are you?”

“Right now I still don’t know what I think,” Carlo only half-admitted. It earned him a bland look from his colleague.

“Well, you asked for my opinion and as far as I can see, the marriage is a relatively happy one. But I’ll keep an eye on her—them—in case anything interesting happens. Not that _that_ family’s circumstances aren’t strange to begin with.”

Carlo acknowledged the comment only with a vague smile, his mind already chasing many rapidly developing theories. Cavallone was undoubtedly guilty of multitudes of crimes, but perhaps not this one. Even if he had been involved, as Dani persistently claimed, there were countless manners of involvements possible before, during, and after a murder. The hair colour was the key, but with neither proofs nor verified facts, it was near impossible to make a connection.

A short train of knocks on his door made him look up. Norma was already crossing the threshold before he could permit entry, her face stiffly wrought with tension.

“There was another one.”

Carlo felt his mouth go dry as a shiver ghosted up his spine. More proofs, just as he had asked, a distant part of his mind supplied—logically, and yet he could not suppress the surge of self-disgust rebelling inside him at the fleeting thought.

“A new victim?”

“The report just came in.” She handed him a sheet of paper; a printed picture at the top showed a blond-haired man with a warm, genial smile, both hands posed on his hips. “He was thirty-four years old, a chef at a local restaurant. His body was found this morning in an alley behind his house. Beaten to death.”

“Nine.” The soft murmur fell from Tucci’s lips, almost a reverent whisper. Carlo could feel his jaw tighten.

 _Nine._

 

—

 

18.

Mariko was deeply asleep when Tsuna tiptoed in. She lay on her front, arms spread at each side, the peaceful, innocent face turned toward him. Tsuna stood by the crib and watched her for a long time, his expression an odd blend of affection and stark grimness.

The sight of her always managed to stir old conflicts back to life, those ghosts which had once raged in him but long since quietened by years of dutiful acceptance. He did not regret his daughter—would never, ever regret her, or Kyoko—but bringing her into _this_ world was another matter entirely. He had had a choice, once, too quickly abandoned in the face of circumstances, too cowardly and impossible it had seemed; and now the door was forever closed to him. He was entangled too deep, his blood and bone and flesh, and with him his wife and daughter.

Kyoko had known from the moment she had looked into his eyes, an eternity ago, what would be waiting for her should she decide to stay. She had known and had not flinched, and Tsuna loved her for that. Lately, however, he had often caught her staring at their daughter, a deeply pensive expression etched on her face, and it became impossible for him not to wonder if she was plagued the same demons. Some sacrifices were simply crossing the line, but now the line had been blurred so, too often stretched and smudged by too many if’s and what-if’s.

Tsuna still believed in one thing: they owed an unsullied future to every child born out of their love. It should have been the least they could give, not comfort cushioned by blood money.

The thought of such lofty ideals made him cringe.

He left the nursery with heavy steps and found Hayato waiting just outside the door. In front of him, his right-hand man carried himself like an open book, and for that trust, Tsuna never allowed himself to doubt him. When Hayato approached him with that face, sourness heavily tinged with disapproval, it was invariably about one of two things: the Varia or Hibari.

Tsuna pressed his lips together. Even her name brought the taste of bile and shame to the back of his throat, but he kept his reaction out of his face. Hayato did not know. No one did because no one needed to know.

“What did she do this time?” he managed to ask in a carefully level voice.

“Attacked Fabio Dormiglione.” Hayato’s prompt answer was nowhere near as level. He was gritting his teeth and each word came with such force that would have been rage if freely unleashed. “Don Dormiglione was furious. According to him, they were only conversing, all mild and civil when she suddenly lunged at his son. I couldn’t contact her, so we only know their side of story so far.”

“What were they talking about?”

“The recurrent minor conflicts between our people and theirs in Agrigento. Tempers might be running high, but still, she had no business attacking any of them. Don Dormiglione took it as a serious offence.”

A headache which had been threatening to ambush him the entire day suddenly sprang. Tsuna massaged his temple and wished, for the millionth time, that somebody else had this job. “She just attacked him for no reason?”

“Not for any _logical_ reason that I can think of,” Hayato replied, his irritation very thinly concealed. “I tried to reach her, but Kusakabe claimed that he didn’t know where she was, although I’m not so sure.”

Tsuna must admit that neither was he. Kusakabe Tetsuya only ever belonged to Hibari Kyouya, and the Vongola, no matter how powerful they were, could not shake this creed. It was common knowledge and a running joke his Rain Guardian liked to mention whenever the occasion arose.

Right now, however, it didn’t feel even remotely funny.

“Hibari-san isn’t usually like this.” Tsuna frowned deeply. “A long time ago maybe, but it has been years.”

The pregnant silence which followed suggested many things. Tsuna glanced at his right-hand man and waited, sensing what to come from the narrow line of Hayato’s lips, so tightly sealed that words must be bursting behind his teeth.

It took him almost one full minute to make a decision. “Tenth, I don’t know if this has any bearing but,” he paused, taking a deep breath, “Fabio Dormiglione recently coloured his hair blond.”

Tsuna could only stare, a strange emptiness which would have felt like relief were it not so hollow settling over him. In Hayato’s face, he read the same suspicion which had lurked inside him since the police visit two weeks ago—now a budding certainty.

 _Oh, Hibari-san._

 

—

 

19.

The proprietor of the bakery was a plump, middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and an anxious air. She had called when reports of the most recent murder, along with a decent picture of the deceased, had made the headline in the afternoon news.

“He always came to buy bread here,” the woman told Dani—who suitably had a pencil poised above his opened notebook—and wiped her tearful eyes with a large apron. “Said he couldn’t make them as good. A nice young man, he was.”

“And you were saying something about yesterday?” Dani prodded.

“Yes, he came around at six, as usual, and bought a loaf of _ciabatta_. He told me he would be having some friends over later and he planned to make some _panini_. When he stepped outside, an Asian woman approached him. She was dressed all in black—just like a regular business suit, you know, jacket and trousers all black. Tie too. They talked for a little while and then left together. I thought maybe she was one of those friends he had mentioned, although now that I think back again, it didn’t seem likely.”

 _A woman?_ Dani hid his surprise and pressed on. “What was she like?”

“Well, an Asian,” the proprietor repeated, furrowing her brow. “Her hair was cut short like a man’s. It’s strange that I didn’t notice her until she came up on him though. We don’t see Asian people often around here, even tourists, and she certainly didn’t look like one.

“Did you notice anything special about her face or her build? Even the smallest thing might help.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her frown deepened and she shot a glance outside, as if hoping to see the same woman once again. “She was a bit on the thin side, average height, short hair like I said. And she was beautiful, although I don’t see how that could help with anything.”

Dani raised his eyebrows. “Beautiful?”

A little smile softened the woman’s expression, clearing her brow. “Oh yes, very.”

 

—

 

20.

A delicious scent filled Romario’s nose when a waiter dressed all in white walked past his table, carrying two plates of _linguine_. For one blessed second, all worries vanished from his mind, every crack and crevice filled solely with appreciation of the scent. There was nothing quite like homemade cooking, one of the reasons why this place was his favourite haunt. The owner, an old friend who had once worked for the _Famiglia_ , had welcomed him warmly and proceeded to open one of his best bottles despite Romario’s protest. Nonsense, Aldo had said with a customary flourish of his hand. Wine was made for drinking, prized or not. Besides, another bottle had also been prepared, his personal compliments to the Don, so the least Romario could do was to not let his share go to waste.

More content than he had been in weeks, Romario raised his glass for a second sip, savouring the delicate flavour of the wine. The drizzle of conversations around him left a muted, pleasant hum in his hears. The _trattoria_ was not crowded—usually it was a veritable effort to find a seat in this place, but the rare surprise suited Romario just fine. The nature of the conversation he would no doubt be having later with his company was not made for any additional pair of ears.

His table occupied a corner, slightly separated from the others by the modest length of the bar. Another reason why Romario preferred this place to many other similar establishments was its homely feel. The scatter of small lamps cast a warm, inviting glow on the limestone wall and dark-wood chairs. The restaurant itself was moderately sized and comfortably furnished, a feat accomplished almost single-handedly by Aldo’s now-deceased wife. Her framed photograph smiled down benignly at patrons from the top of the wine cupboard, adored by a faithful husband whose passion for cooking allowed him very little competence in any other area. Aldo’s daughter, Elena, now took over her mother’s role.

For a moment, Romario regretted his decision to invite Tetsuya to the _trattoria_. Years ago, they had enjoyed the opportunities of good food and pleasant conversations together when their bosses had been occupied with each other. In Japan, there had been sushi bars and oden stalls, all Tetsuya’s choices. In Italy, Romario had made sure to return the gesture and introduce his friend to the delight of Italian cuisines. Naturally, the tradition had ceased when Dino had decided to make a clean break and marry Georgina Russo.

It was only now, as Elena led Tetsuya to the table, that Romario allowed himself to admit that he had really missed those times.

They greeted each other warmly, as if six years had not passed since their last proper meeting. Romario smiled when Tetsuya ordered _orata al forno_ —a proof that the younger man had not forgotten about the place. Strangely pleased by the admission, he settled for the same.

Tetsuya had changed. Romario knew that he himself was beginning to look his age with each passing day, but some of the lines on his face were the mute children of happiness; Dino’s smiles, and more recently Adriano’s birth, had left them there. Tetsuya’s was different. He had always looked older than his years, but now a frown settled permanently between his thick eyebrows and the shape of his mouth took a definite downward turn. With a mistress like Hibari, perhaps it was not so surprising, Romario thought wryly.

To his disappointment, Tetsuya did not waste words with harmless reminiscences and immediately plunged into the chief subject of the evening.

“Last Thursday was a surprise.”

Romario smiled wanly—he would have preferred to wait until dessert before initiating any serious talk. “You didn’t answer your cell phone. If you had, I would have warned you of our coming.”

His companion shrugged. “I was driving. Kyou-san doesn’t like it.”

“She doesn’t like a lot of things.”

Tetsuya’s eyes narrowed, his displeasure at the jab unmistakable. “What did your boss want?”

“That depends on the answer to this question, Tetsuya,” Romario replied solemnly. “What did _she_ do?”

“What do you mean?” No reaction was evident on the younger man’s face, but the gruffness of his voice told Romario different. They knew each other too well, even now.

“The _Polizia_ came to see us last week about a series of murders. Blond men, beaten to death with a hard, blunt object.”

Tetsuya’s face darkened. “If you are suggesting that Kyou-san has anything to do with those murders, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Are you sure?”

The reaction was immediate. “It’s your choice to believe me or not,” Tetsuya replied brusquely and rose to his feet, clearly intent to leave. Between the creases of his frown, there was none of the old patience which used to match Romario’s own.

Always swift to respond, Romario leaned forward and pushed the untouched glass toward the other man. “At least have a sip before you leave,” he said neutrally. “It’s a really good bottle.”

Tetsuya stared at him for a long time, the frown settling deeper and deeper with each second. Romario counted the sonorous ticks echoing from an old clock on the wall somewhere above him, far too used to waiting to think twice about it.

Finally his companion sat down—if reluctantly. A less pessimistic man would have sighed in relief, but Romario had played these games for too long to think of this little achievement as a victory. “The pasta is good too,” he added instead, accepting a heavy, rueful glance for his trouble.

“I remember.”

“The best you’ve ever had, yes?”

“You never allowed me to eat pasta elsewhere.”

The banter and a fleeting honest smile it coaxed reminded Romario just why he had liked the Tetsuya so much. The moment dispersed just as quickly as he breached the grave subject once more. “Look, it may not be my place to make assumptions, but if there is even the slightest threat directed toward my boss, I will have to step in.”

The younger man’s expression returned to its stony façade. “You are making baseless accusations. There is no threat whatsoever.”

“And there is no one in this world who wants to believe it more than he does,” Romario hammered on. “I agree that this matter should stay between them if possible. Which is why I’m telling you this: next Saturday, we will have a meeting with the Pascoli Family at _Il Castello_.”

“You know that they cannot meet,” Tetsuya hissed. “You’ve gone into great lengths to make sure of that—we both have.”

“The circumstances are different now.”

“They _cannot_ meet, Romario.”

Romario looked at his companion’s stubborn face and knew—of course—that he was right. Dino was a loving husband and father, a man who put the highest regard to fidelity; but Hibari Kyouya was one of a kind, a factor of an entirely different magnitude that she could not possibly belong in _any_ rule or equation in the first place.

And yet he said, “I don’t think that is for us to decide, Tetsuya.”

Tetsuya opened his mouth to retort, but at that moment, Elena came with the appetisers.

 

—

 

21.

“A woman,” Dani repeated, still sounding in awe. Norma threw him an offended look from her desk. For once they were not crowding Carlo’s office, now far too cramped with the addition of another whiteboard to accommodate particulars from the latest murder.

“You don’t believe that a woman could do all these?”

“To be honest, no,” he admitted solemnly. “You’re supposed to be the gentler spirits—the more balanced ones, as some experts said. Your gender cannot, _should_ not inflict brutality of this level because you handle things better than us primitive men.”

“Thank you,” she said dryly.

“Except this time she made a mistake,” Carlo interrupted their banter impatiently. “She approached the victim in broad daylight, directly in front of a bakery, and by doing so provided the proprietor with a very good chance to notice her. Why?”

Norma bit down a caustic retort which had sneaked up to the tip of her tongue. She knew perfectly well that at times like this, she was not a fountain of ideas as much as a sounding board to her boss. There was no point in taking offence either; it was, as she had learned in the last six months, simply how he operated in a dead end. Even Dani was still subjected to the same treatment despite the long history of their friendship.

“A change is always preceded by a trigger,” Dani said thoughtfully, catching his partner’s eyes. “Something must have happened which affected her to that extent.”

“Undoubtedly, but what was it?”

As if the question were a cue, Gina came in through the door at that moment and went directly to their circle. “I’ve got it,” she said, slamming a piece of paper down on Norma’s desk. “That Asian woman. Her descriptions had been bugging me since last night, but I didn’t make the connection until this morning.”

It was a picture of a woman with short black hair. An Asian woman—a very beautiful one, Norma realised with a shiver which always followed after a vital discovery.

Dani sank deeper into his seat and let out a long whistle.

“Hibari Kyouya,” Gina continued with a strange sort of intensity in her undertone. “One of Sawada Tsunayoshi’s Guardians—and more importantly, she has a connection to Dino Cavallone. There are rumours that they had been lovers before he married his wife.”

“Always the pretty ones have something ugly to hide,” Dani said with a deep sigh, earning himself a glacial look from Gina.

Carlo ignored his partner completely. “The motive could be jealousy,” he said instead, his attention still arrested by the picture.

“Possibly,” Gina acknowledged, “although from what I’ve heard, she is supposed to be heartless.”

Norma could not help a small, rueful smile at the comment. “But it’s always the so-called heartless people who fall the hardest when they finally do, right?” she murmured softly and the wealth of understanding which suddenly bloomed in the other woman’s eyes forced her to look down to her keyboard.

“We’re jumping into conclusions,” Carlo reminded them, seemingly oblivious to everything but their new, possible suspect. “ _Agente_ Saluzzo, do you think this Hibari Kyouya is capable to commit these murders?”

“Oh yes.” A note of excitement crept into Gina’s normally low-pitched voice. “She may be a woman, but words in the streets are that she is Sawada’s strongest Guardian, not to mention the most ruthless. And guess what—her weapon of choice? A pair of tonfa.”

“A hard, blunt object.” For the first time since he had stumbled upon the report of the actor, a victorious gleam set Carlo’s dark eyes alight. “I think we got our guy.”

“Girl,” Dani corrected, a matching gleam in his eyes.

“Girl,” he conceded.

 

—

 

22.

For the hundredth time, Tetsu glanced at his mistress and bit down the words which had been lurking behind his tightly pressed lips.

As far as personal opinions went, he did not agree with Romario, no matter what tricks the older man had tried to pull to pave the rocky, jagged space which now spanned between them. A meeting would yield nothing other than the undoing of years of hard work. But the threat was real; it must be, coming from Romario’s mouth, but to share the information with Hibari meant disclosing his source and Tetsu could tell, wrapped as he was in her presence, that it would not end well.

The subject of her mysterious enterprise had never come up between them. He was a limb to take care of the particulars, to drive the car, to clean up the mess afterward—not a mind to share plots and devise schemes with. But Tetsu had closed his eyes and pretended ignorance far too often to not know what the night hid, what a hint of a smile on her lips suggested, what the smell of blood meant when a flash of gold was brought front and centre. They had been careful, the discreetness, the constant change of places, but obviously these measures had not been enough.

Their current hideout was one with a magnificent view to the sea. Unlike many previous other locations, Tetsu genuinely liked this small, rented house at the outskirt of the city. Hibari, on the other hand, was never fully at ease in a foreign setting. The living room windows offered a picturesque landscape which made Tetsu smile, and yet it made no difference to her, her posture stiff and grey eyes hard as ice.

She was, he realised with a slight hitch in his measured breathing, an unhappy woman.

It was as if a film had been lifted from his eyes. The realisation brought him no surprise, only an odd, vague sense of disorientation. She was still the most formidable person he had ever met, the only one who deserved his loyalty, but yes, she was unhappy. The change affected not his respect, merely his perspective, simple chromatic differences between then and now. As he looked at her, he saw sadness unborn, for she did not know how to give birth to such—he smiled, a hazy flash of remembrance— _herbivorous_ emotion. The sadness which bloomed in him then was a shadow, like the mourning veil of a dead infant. Empathy, _almost_.

The decision came to him easily, like a slow-moving stream flowing into his mind. What Kyou-san did was her own business and he had no wish to interfere—but the threats were real and he would rather suffer the brunt of her anger than the torment of disloyalty. His natural element might be Mist, but Tetsuya knew what he truly was—always as steady as wood, as inflexible as the hardest bark, and at times just as brittle. He was an old oak tree reaching toward the clouds, and no matter how much he longed for the unattainable, there would always be the earth to ground him.

Clouds, he reflected sadly, did not have that privilege, that constancy of company; clouds were free, independent, _alone_.

Tetsu heaved a deep breath and began, “Kyou-san, we have a problem.”

 

—

 

23.

“We lost him.”

Failures, to Mario Tucci, did not taste bitter—in fact he managed to make his admission calmly enough. To him failures tasted like _nothing_ , for nothing was worse than nothing, and as he sat in his parked car, cursing himself to hell and back, he knew that this was one of his worst.

As if eager to prove him right, there was no answer from the other side of the line for a long time. Daniele Verro could be a conniving bastard when he wanted to—unlike his aggressively straightforward partner, whom Mario admitted to like so much better. Again, he cursed Carlo’s absence from his office.

“I thought you and your team were the best there were.” His voice was smooth, controlled. Dani was in a far from forgiving mood. Mario had learned from experience that _that_ sort of voice could hide many things underneath, none of which was remotely to his liking.

“We were remiss,” he admitted, treading carefully. “That man is as slippery as a fish. He knew he was being followed, but he didn’t act like he knew, until then.”

Dani sighed, still a sound deliberately made; it grated on Mario’s nerves. “Carlo is going to have a fit. When did you see Cavallone last?”

“He left his residence early this afternoon. Wife and kid stayed at home, so most likely it was for business. He went straight to one of those expensive restaurants he owned. I wasn’t there, but Luigi said that Don Vongola arrived about ten minutes afterward. I joined him in the surveillance and an hour and a half later, they left separately. We followed Cavallone’s car into the city, but we lost him when he made a stop at a tailor.”

“A tailor?” A trace of genuine surprise filtered through the ominous calm which governed Dani’s voice. Mario smiled in grim triumph, irrational and empty as it was.

“Maybe he wanted a new silk suit, I don’t know—it seemed to be what a guy like him would do. His car and driver were left outside, so we waited just around the corner.” He paused to take a deep breath and swallow the bitterness which saturated his mouth. “The problem was, he did not come out.”

“Have you–”

“Yes, I went into the store myself and checked. He must have went through the back door and gone with another car.”

“Clever.”

Dani was probably mocking him. Mario decided it was wiser to remain silent despite his impulse to bite back. The silence stretched, unwilling.

“So now we’ll have to wait until he appears once more,” Dani spoke again after one full minute of nothing, his tone still on that plane which neither accused nor excused.

Mario clenched his idle hand around the steering wheel, resisting an urge to throw the cell phone out of the car window. “I’ve posted men in front of his house, the restaurant, and the tailor store,” he replied instead, keeping his calm. “We’ll know when he returns.”

“It seems to be the only way. Let’s just hope that we don’t miss anything important. Again.”

 _Go to hell_ , Mario thought acidly.

 

—

 

24.

 _Power_ , Reborn had said during one of his more esoteric lectures, _is the one temptress no man can resist._

Dino had been fourteen and the lesson had left him wide-eyed, cheeks red with a mix of confusion and embarrassment. After a few months in the thick of the Family’s business, however, he had discovered the verity of Reborn’s words, both in himself and others. Still, he learned to use the knowledge, for of course his tutor had been right; as had been proven over and over again, it was the one temptress no man could resist, especially a Mafioso whose life was so mired in the struggles between power and nothing.

This situation was trickier still. Don Pascoli, as he had feared, had refused to back down, but then again he had very little reason to. Their joint gambling business would be an extremely lucrative bargain for him if all turned out well. Unfortunately, it was now Dino’s job to bully him into lowering his claim and subsiding into a much inferior position. Equality would create problems in the future, as Tsuna had reminded him at lunch.

The meeting had been difficult. It was nearly midnight when Dino returned to his hotel room, weary and aching. He collapsed into a plush armchair as Romario went about the room, checking windows and any possible hiding place, including the balcony. _Il Castello_ prided itself on its long history of excellent service and utmost discretion, but the building, once a grand mansion of private use, boasted rooms with size thoroughly inconvenient for security purposes. Nevertheless, Dino was glad for the room, the space. Decorated in shades of soothing brown, it offered a quiet, solemn comfort reminiscent of an old, well-tended house.

“All secure, Boss.” Romario finished his inspection with a last definite click of the door latch. “Anything I can get you for tonight?”

“Don Pascoli’s assent in a silver platter would be great,” Dino murmured, earning himself a soft chuckle from the older man. “Or maybe his head.”

“You’ll get it in due time. You always do.”

Dino had to smile at that. “Let’s hope that time will be tomorrow. Thanks, Romario.”

“I’ll just be across the hall with Ivan and Alberto. Good night, Boss.”

With Romario’s departure, the space seemed to expand. In silence, Dino considered the day’s work. So far, his only triumph had been the well-planned manoeuvre to elude his police tail. It would have been unwise to let them follow him to the hotel—and consequently, the meeting with Don Pascoli. The gambling project was not without its enemies, and at such a precarious stage still, he would be wise to be careful.

As the night wore on, the threads of his thoughts loosened and unravelled. Before long, he was lost in tangles of half-dreams and memories, his mind wending paths long unvisited. The enormity of the project lessened, slowly eclipsed by a tapestry of faces which all looked like him but for their glass eyes and open mouths. They chanted a slow song, reminding him to a painting Georgina had finished after Adriano’s birth: of a boy on a pony and the gentle hand of a woman guiding him. There were autumn haze and spring breeze. The scent of sakura and the smell of blood. Gold hair and black.

 _Kyouya._

Dino jerked awake, his right hand automatically reaching toward a gun hidden in a nightstand which was not there. It took him a moment to realise that he was still sitting in the armchair, in his hotel room, not at home. The prickling unease remained. Dino rose to his feet and retrieved the gun from where he had discarded it with his jacket on the bed.

The windows were latched; the door leading out to the balcony was not.

His first instinct was to shut the door and lock it behind him. He fought against it, the weight of his shoulder slowly widening the gap between door and frame instead. The curl of his fingers tightened as countless possibilities flooded his mind, a flicker of some absurd hope at the fore.

Outside, the night was warm with a tang of salt in the air, close enough to the sea. The distant sound of waves sharpened his wariness instead of soothed, but he could find nothing out of the ordinary. Two floors down, yellow-bright garden lamps lit a pair of meandering paths leading to the beach, both completely deserted at this time of night. Perhaps he had been imagining things and the lock was simply faulty. Even the most harmless sound would appear ominous when a mind was shadowed so.

And yet it was disappointment, not relief, which flooded his mind after the conclusion. The taste of this frustration was one he had almost forgotten, but now it swelled thick in him, as familiar as an old enemy. It had once been a constant company, during those long nights he had spent waiting, hoping, always in vain until the warm glow turned cold and bitter.

But even now, he was still madly in love with her.

Pathetic. Dino felt a self-depreciating smile curving his lips as he returned inside and turned the lock into place. The silence within seemed to ambush him with its weight and suddenness; before he knew it, he had reached for his phone and made a call.

Georgina answered on the third ring. Her voice, calm and soothing, did not make his world perfect, but it always guided him to things he thought he had lost. Every single time.

“I love you,” he said, and meant it.

 

—

 

25.

“The body was found this morning by a jogger and her dog.”

Colours drained from Norma’s face as she quickly looked down, away from the full-sized picture of their newest victim projected on the screen. Dani stared, open-mouthed, at what was supposed to be a human’s face.

“The brutality has increased.”

“Seems like it.” Carlo sounded grim. “You said it was found in a park?”

“Yes.” Norma glanced at the details on the bottom-right corner of her monitor. “The park had been closed since 10 p.m. last night. According to the coroner’s report, he died around two in the morning. No witness has come forward so far.”

“Back to _Sicilia_ ,” Dani mused, a nebulous thought forming at the edge of his mind. “We haven’t been able to locate that woman, Hibari Kyouya, have we?”

She shook her head dejectedly. “No. There’s literally no paper trail of her anywhere, not even a record of her going into the country. I suggest working with the Japanese government, but it’s going to take time.”

“And the _Finanza_?”

Gina was standing rigidly by Norma’s desk, stony-faced. “Just that she is one of Sawada’s so-called Guardians. There’s a good chance that she came from where the rest of them came from though. There is a city in Japan which we have suspected for quite some time—the name is Namimori. But records regarding this place and its civilians seem to have been sealed, and no matter what we do, we can’t get past that fence.”

Carlo’s frown deepened. “Sealed? They’re civilian records. Maybe the Japanese just aren’t cooperating.”

A humourless smile flashed across her face. “Believe me, we have tried many, _many_ times, including through unofficial channels, and still we can’t get to the information. Looks like that when the founder of the _Famiglia_ Vongola came to Japan, he took care to apply extreme security measures in order to protect his legacy. Namimori was a city literally built by him. I won’t be surprised if his claws sank far inside the Japanese government.”

“A _Mafia_ Family?” Dani was incredulous. “Having power of that extent?”

“It isn’t exactly unheard of. There are countries widely known as havens for criminals.”

“But this is Japan!”

Gina shot him a sombre look. “You don’t understand. The Vongola Alliance is one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world. And back then, Japan was not what it is now. It was still so divided, just recently opened to foreign influences.”

“Still the power to–”

“That,” Carlo cut their debate short, “is not our concern at the moment. These murders are. Let’s just concentrate here and prevent anyone else from getting murdered for now. Pull up a map of the area where the crime scene is, Norma.”

Dani reluctantly abandoned his argument and returned his attention to the wide screen in front of him. “The red mark is where the body was found,” Norma was explaining. “Actually this area is not far from a popular tourist spot, but it’s relatively quiet. Only a few exclusive hotels and restaurants.”

“What is this big property over here?” Carlo pointed at the west portion of the map.

It only took Norma a few keystrokes to find the answer. “It’s a hotel. _Il Castello_.”

Gina was suddenly tense. “ _Il Castello_ is a popular holiday spot among the upper tiers of the Mafia,” she said quickly. “We’ve had our eyes on that place for years, but they’re frustratingly correct above board.”

Carlo’s face was expressionless, all emotions crowded into his voice as he said fiercely, “If none of our _friends_ is staying there, I’ll give up my badge.”

 

—

 

26.

The news reached Dino’s ears during breakfast.

A Mafioso learned to be on guard at the first sound of a police siren, and his men were no exception. Romario caught his eyes for a split of a second and then promptly excused himself, leaving his food virtually untouched. Ivan, Alberto, and the rest sat up straighter in their seats, their postures readied for any confrontation.

Romario returned a few minutes later, his pace steady and unhurried as if nothing of consequence had occurred. Dino read the tight lines around his mouth instead and recognised the calmness for an armour against outside scrutiny, as soon proven by the news whispered into his ear. A man had been murdered in a nearby park—a man with blond hair.

Dino sat unmoving in his chair for a long time. The croissant he had eaten scarcely minutes prior weighed like stones in his stomach. He had considered last night’s anxiety as nothing but that—mere anxiety—but the murder threw a whole new light upon the subject. Too many coincidences strung together could no longer call themselves by that name; their fortuitous identities were forfeit, for now there must be a link, a reason.

He left the breakfast room with brisk steps, Romario leading the way. A crowd of curious spectators had formed around the park, along with an ambulance and two police cars. Dino remained inside the circle of his six men, but his eyes were fixed on the covered body behind the red-white police tapeline. A mop of golden hair speckled with dried blood peeked from under the cover.

The heaviness inside him turned into nausea. Dino gritted his teeth, only dimly aware of Romario’s soft, concerned voice murmuring into his right ear.

“Boss?”

“Find her, Romario,” he replied quietly, fists clenched so tight his nails nearly drew blood. “Do everything you can. Just find her before they do.”

 

—

 

27.

Dani managed to keep the wince off his face when the body was carried toward the waiting ambulance—and that, just barely. He had come across a range of ghastly sights in the course of his career, but the fact that a human body could be reduced into nothing more than a shapeless mess of flesh and bones and blood gave him a dreadful pause as if a chasm had opened up in the ground before his feet. He knew the theories, had seen with his own eyes some of the most appalling practices, and still nothing could have prepared him for this level of atrocity.

Still partly numb, he dragged himself back to present predicament and cast his gaze around at the gathering crowd. The curiosity which permeated the air was not at all originated from fear; in fact, it almost smelt like relief. Humans were odd in that manner. There was always certain conviction after a disaster, that the higher powers should now be sated and therefore would not exact further tribute, at least for a certain length of time. It was illogical, but there it was, seated deep in every human heart.

It was that striking colour which shook him awake from his musing. Dani had seen enough surveillance photos to recognise the man at first glance, now surrounded by a number of his lackeys, all dressed in formal black. Rather unusual in the otherwise casually dressed mass, the rest of the onlookers had given their little group a conspicuous berth, either consciously or not.

“There’s Cavallone,” Dani muttered into his partner’s ear. Carlo’s response, to his credit, was a barely noticeable sidelong glance at the indicated direction.

“Very bold.” The comment was equally discreet, soft enough to be a whisper. “What does he think he can achieve by showing his face here?”

“Maybe to show us that he has nothing to hide.”

“Or nothing to fear.” The grim line of Carlo’s mouth twisted into a mute expression of rage.

“He does seem conceited enough to think himself untouchable.”

“How do you want to handle this?”

Dani glanced at the slowly dispersing crowd. “I suggest we have a little talk with him and see what he has to say.”

Carlo’s lips thinned, but he nodded his head. “Do that. I’ll see the officer in charge first and then I’ll join you.”

Dino Cavallone showed no hint of recognition as Dani approached him with purposeful steps. Only once they were close enough to measure each other’s height, eye to eye, did he look away from that blood-darkened spot behind the police line. As if obeying an unvoiced order, the pair standing stiffly in front of him parted a little, allowing an aperture.

“Good day, _Agente_.” The greeting came with a nod, both suitably polite despite the transparent hostility shown by the rest of his men. Dani smiled grimly, for a moment wondering at the possibility of a bullet breaching that tight circle of fortification, if no man could.

“I’m afraid I must disagree, _Signor_ Cavallone.” He opted for repartee and glanced down the road where the ambulance had disappeared from sight. “Far from a good day for us, that’s for sure.”

“Naturally,” Cavallone nodded, quiet and solemn, yet offering no further encouragement to prolong the conversation. If anything, he still feigned ignorance at the gravity of his situation—a person of interest present at the latest crime scene.

Two could play the game, Dani thought, more determined than ever. “A family vacation, sir?” he asked casually.

“A business meeting.”

“Ah,” he allowed a smile, wry and fleeting. “Not out jurisdiction, sadly.”

Cavallone’s responding smile was noncommittal. Dani could sense the beginning of an excuse to end the discourse just around the corner and forestalled it immediately. “You were staying at the Hotel _Il Castello_?” again he asked.

“A detail one man of your position doubtless can check,” Cavallone’s tone was polite still, but its mocking edge was unmistakable. Dani held a firm grip to his suddenly flaring temper and resolutely stood his ground.

“I’ll make sure to double-check it.”

“I’m certain _Agente_ Gina Saluzzo will be more than happy to help.” A thin smile and slight incline of head; it was an exit, but Dani was quick enough to notice. Heedless of his own safety, he took one step forward, now close enough to provoke unfriendly growls from the nearest pair of henchmen.

“A few more question if you don’t mind, sir? This is of the utmost importance.”

Cavallone waved a hand, turning around instead. “Perhaps another time, _Agente_.”

“If it’s a court order you need—”

But he was already walking away and Dani could only smile frostily at the menacing, black-suited men blocking his way. He still stood rooted to the spot, frowning at the group and the distance rapidly growing between them when his partner returned.

“You’re done already?” Carlo sounded surprised, almost disapproving. “What did he say?”

“That last night he stayed at the hotel all right,” Dani said grimly. The sting had not quite passed. After what Gina had shared with them, he knew better than to underestimate the Mafia’s extent of power—but even so.

Carlo frowned. “It doesn’t actually tell us anything. To be honest I still don’t see where he fits in all these, unless you’re saying that he and that Vongola Guardian are partners. Or that she is following him and in the meantime also killing every blond man she comes across.”

Dani shook his head, finally turning to face his partner. “No, these murders aren’t that organised. They feel like the work of a child who has someone to clean up after her.”

“Cavallone?”

“Well, he may want to protect her,” Dani considered slowly. “And he sure as hell has the manpower to do it. Have you ever thought what it would be like if that number were added to the side of justice instead?”

A rare, fleeting smile appeared on Carlo’s face. “Wishful thinking.”

“A man can hope,” Dani sighed, feigning disappointment. “There’s one little problem if we go with your theory though. If Dino Cavallone and Hibari Kyouya are as attached to each other as you just implied, I can’t imagine why they didn’t simply marry and spare us all the killings. Gina said they were already in a sort of relationship before his marriage five years ago.”

“Let’s not jump into guessing motives,” Carlo reminded him. “There are still so many unknown factors that surround the Mafia for us to discover any rhyme or reason. We presently have enough to bring her in as a person of interest, so we’ll focus on that.”

“Any suggestion on how to find her?”

That, of course, was the crux of the problem. So far, they had seen neither head nor tail of the Vongola Cloud Guardian except for the brief glimpses claimed by few of the eyewitnesses. Carlo frowned, his lips pursed as was his habit in deep thought.

“Cavallone,” he said at last. “You’re right, he’s the key. We must not let him get out of our sight again. We’ll ask for the help of the local police for additional manpower, and if needs be, we’ll join the surveillance team ourselves.” Determination wrapped around his voice like steel. “If we don’t know how to find her, then we’ll tail one who does. He will bring us to her, sooner or later.”

 

—

 

28.

“I heard you got into some spot of trouble with the _Polizia_.”

Tsuna smiled nervously. As usual, the glint in Reborn’s innocent-looking eyes stirred an old panic deep inside him which had never quite faded over the years. In front of this small baby, the ghost of a pathetic, spineless boy of fourteen always returned to haunt him and turn his hands cold with sweat.

“You were in Alexandria. How did you…?” The question trailed off awkwardly as he realised just how foolish it would have sounded. Of course Reborn would know—it was in his nature to _know_. After sixteen years of being subjected to this patronising treatment, he really should have gotten used to his former tutor’s alleged omnipotence.

Reborn, in his part, only acknowledged the half question with a small, depreciating smile. How something so childlike could serve to discourage anyone so much was beyond Tsuna.

“I assume,” he sank deeper into his plush seat, an old habit he had almost forgotten in Reborn’s absence, “you also know what it’s all about?”

It was then that all traces of complacency slowly disappeared from Reborn’s face. He looked thoughtful now, almost wary. “Do you know for sure?” Instead of answering, he parried the question with another.

“That it’s her? No.” Tsuna left it at that but he knew Reborn could hear the unspoken just as well. His precious Vongola legacy, the extraordinary intuition, had so far never led him astray. But if only he had noticed faster, _sooner_ , then perhaps…

The mocking emptiness which followed that ultimately futile supposition shook him awake. Tsuna could almost laugh at such bold, careless assumption that had dared enter his mind. The thought that he could stand in his Cloud Guardian’s way and persuaded her to stop was about as laughable as denying Reborn’s influence in his life.

“He thinks it’s his fault, doesn’t he?”

Tsuna looked up, both surprised and alarmed to notice that Reborn actually looked _old_ for once—as if his infant form offered him no resistance against the onslaught of time. “Dino-san didn’t confide in me.” The shock easily coaxed truth from his lips; Tsuna could feel numbness spread down to the tips of his fingers. “But I’d imagine he would think so.”

The legendary hitman muttered something which sounded like _stupid student_ under his breath.

“Any decent man will feel the same,” Tsuna added, compelled to defend the man he had come to regard as an older brother.

Reborn paid no heed to this charitable view his student presented. He scowled at an antique clock sitting on the mantelpiece and said instead, “I take it that the _Polizia_ also knew, if they were making a visit to you.”

Tsuna hid his grimace and nodded. “I’m afraid so. They’re already onto her as far as I know, but she has managed to elude them so far. I’m getting more and more worried though—these people aren’t stupid.”

“So what are you going to do?”

The question caught him off-guard like a sudden gust of wind. For one terrible moment, Tsuna relived the numbing pain of helplessness, that constant companion when he had been too young and too weak to make any choice of his own; and then how pitilessly—and yet, in that sense, how unfailingly—had the world around him marched on still, uncaring of his plight.

“I’m not sure where I stand here, Reborn,” he said at last, uncomfortably.

“You’re her boss,” was Reborn’s stern, laconic retort, every bit as ruthless as the old times.

“Am I?” Tsuna muttered, strange bitterness rising inside his chest. Hibari Kyouya belonged to no one—and although he could probably argue that point now, considering what he knew and what his intuition told him, all he could remember was his shame, his one moment of disgrace. He could still hear her soft hiss in his ears, the way she had commanded him, used him, all against his will and yet not. Oh how he remembered her.

“She is still your responsibility, at least in the eye of the world,” Reborn persisted.

Tsuna bit the inside of his lips, swallowing an angry response. Now it crawled and seethed in the length of his throat, dark, taunting. Reborn saw his mute effort all the same and Tsuna suddenly remembered the Arcobaleno’s cruelty—Reborn took pleasures in these perversions, as was evident from the slow curve of his smirk. But he was older now and one of the things about growing in age was to become accustomed to many things. He shook his head, an answer and an effort to dispel the thought from his mind, answering at last, “I agree that the killing must stop, but there is no easy solution to this… I don’t even know what to call it.” He paused, caught breathless in a moment’s revelation. “They did love each other, you know.”

“None of these would have happened if they had not,” Reborn replied dryly.

The Vongola Decimo managed a faint smile—he always was the first to laugh at his own blunders. “I suppose so.”

“I’ve said what I came to say.” Reborn jumped down from his chair with speed and ease, his frown already smoothed down once more into a mask of inscrutability. “The rest is up to you.”

Still seated, Tsuna said nothing until his tutor was halfway to the door. “Reborn,” he spoke then—and almost recoiled himself at the pitiful tone of appeal which strangled any pretence of indifference. “Will Dino-san do anything about it?”

Reborn did not stop to turn or look at him. “Oh, he will.” Even his answer was brisk, offhand. “If you remember what Fuuta told you all those years ago, you’ll know the answer.”

And then he was gone.

 

—

 

29.

The _Questura_ building was one of moderate size, its walls painted in what once had been a cheery cream colour, now washed out by both sun and rain into a pale, dull yellow. Red bricks adorned a decorative arc above the central doorway, just below a weathered limestone plaque bearing the name and purpose of the building. The sad state of it made Carlo clench his teeth. In a place like this island, where criminals ran rampant and the law was continually harassed, an office of the _Polizia_ should have been a sturdy stronghold of thousands of men. _Only then,_ he reflected, suddenly resentful, _could we stand a chance._

The _Questore_ was a balding man of fifty with age lines scribed deeply into his brow. He listened patiently as Carlo explained their situation, barely raising an eyebrow at the mention of the Vongola and Cavallone. Neither the descriptions of the murders surprised him, as if a case of such brutality arrived on his desk at least three times a week.

“Your request is very unusual, _Agente_ Rinaldi,” he said at last when Carlo had finished, eyes fixed on the faces before him. His voice, unlike the overall impression he had made so far, was hard and gravelly. Just between the collars of his shirt, Carlo noticed, was an old scar which might account for the unpleasant quality.

“I’m aware of that, sir,” he replied solemnly, “but these murders are not what we would call ordinary either.”

 _Questore_ Federico Pardi sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, one less ‘family’ to deal with is a blessing enough.”

“I’m not sure we will have enough proof to bring down the entire pyramid,” Gina admitted. She stood by the closed door leading to the office with her arms crossed, a faint, dark smile on her face. “But we’ll do our best.”

“I’m confident that you will.” The _Questore_ smiled at her, and then addressed Carlo once more, “Gina here used to be under my command—one of the best. I was sorry to see her leave a few years back.”

“Why isn’t that hard to believe,” Dani muttered from somewhere to his left. Carlo bit his lips to prevent a smile; any encouragement to further comments would hardly be helpful to their case.

“So it’s those two,” Pardi mused, rapping an index finger on his cluttered desk. “I must tell you, unlike many other so-called organizations sprouting out here, they have real muscle and influence—but of course you already know that. Just be prepared for quite a few complications along the way is all I’m saying.”

“We’ve had some,” Carlo said grimly, recalling his experience with both Families so far.

The _Questore_ nodded, equally grim. “Power and money, they go far. Always do.”

 

—

 

30.

The package was small, ordinary, but _tempting._

As swift as a falcon, Adriano snatched it from Martino’s unresisting hand, laughing with a mix of pride and thrill after committing such mischief. The butler only smiled faintly at his childishness, but Mamma was frowning.

“Give it to Mamma, Adriano,” she said firmly, using a tone which told him to obey her or else. “It’s rude to take what isn’t ours.”

Adriano looked at her with wide, innocent eyes and hid the package behind his back. It weighed lightly in his hand, but it was not worth which had roused his mischief—it was the glitter of the wrapping paper. “Can I open it?” he asked and gave her an imploring look which he knew would earn him what he wanted every single time.

An exasperated smile was finally coaxed from his mother’s stern set of lips. “Alright, but be careful. You had a paper cut the other day.”

Grinning cheekily at her, he sat on the carpeted floor, peering at the letters written on one side of the package; they must be spelling his mother’s name, but he only recognised a few of the alphabets. His small fingers worked slowly to unwrap the gold-tinted paper, careful not to ruin it.

“A CD for you, Mamma.” Adriano jumped to his feet and gave it to her. She gave him a quick smile and patted the top of his head, but he did not notice the brief, uncertain look she traded with Martino before inserting the CD into a player. Adriano went back to play with his loot, tearing the paper into long horizontal strips until a faint, odd sound coming from his mother made him look up.

She was staring at the large television screen with her mouth half opened, but what he himself saw only bemused him. It was a movie, and not a very good one at that because the picture continually shifted between sharp and blurred. He could perceive a man kneeling on a hard stone floor with ropes binding his hands and feet—a man with golden hair like Papà —and he was muttering frantically behind a white cloth which was tied around his mouth.

“Mamma?” he ventured hesitantly, but before he could say or see anything more, she had whisked him out of the room. Behind them, the man in the movie had started screaming.

“Let’s go down to the kitchen and have some ice cream,” Mamma was saying loudly above the sound. Her voice was trembling slightly, but Adriano brightened at the prospect of some dessert before dinner and quickly forgot about the kneeling man and the terror written so palpably on his face.

 

—

 

31.

“So you are positive that this case is connected to the Vongola?”

Now that years had passed after her requested transfer to the _Finanza_ , it took Gina a while to get used to one aspect of her old work place which she had nearly forgotten. Her former boss’ voice was by no means soothing—it actually grated on the nerves like gravels on a hard road—but she knew better than anyone that his sense of duty was second to none. Federico was also, despite the affable face which he constantly showed to the general public, the only person whose deep-rooted hatred toward the Mafia probably exceeded hers.

“We have no unassailable proof,” Gina answered truthfully and sat down in one of the two uncomfortable chairs available for the _Questore_ ’s guests. Now that the others had left the room to set up a temporary office for them, she could speak more freely with her former superior. “But everything we have been able to gather so far points to this woman’s direction,” she continued. “There were already several people who claimed to have seen an Asian woman of similar descriptions in the vicinity of the crime scenes. Not to mention, the wounds in the victims’ bodies have been ascertained as the work of a blunt instrument.”

The corners of Federico’s lips twitched. “The infamous tonfa.”

She nodded. “Like I said, nothing definite, but at least some points are rather indicative.”

“Any possible motive?”

An exhaustive interrogation by the director of the _Finanza_ which had taken place only the night before had suitably armed her with legions of facts and a list of the most reasonable hypotheses. Explaining the suspect’s past involvement with Dino Cavallone to her current boss had been a painful experience—but here, now, back to the place where everything felt acutely more real to her, such line of reasoning did not sound all that ridiculous. In the distant, clinical light of her present job, she sometimes forgot that human was human and that love was as good as any to be the motive of a murder.

“And Don Vongola?” Federico asked after she had finished explaining her theory.

Gina hesitated for a moment. “So far, there is no proof that links him with these cases,” she replied carefully. “Maybe he really isn’t involved. Right now we are leaning toward a personal vendetta from the suspect’s part.”

“Every vendetta is personal for these people,” Federico said firmly. “And before you know it, it’s all family business and everyone is targeting everyone. Don’t be tricked by his harmless appearance.”

“I’m not,” Gina muttered tightly, hiding the quick flare of irritation which always arose every time somebody corrected her. She was by no means _impressed_ by Sawada Tsunayoshi’s manners—politeness, she knew from first-hand experience, was nearly always a mask, sometimes even a sword. What convinced her was something else entirely.

“He know how to evoke the friendliest feeling in people, I’ll give him that,” Federico spoke again.

“I said I’m not tricked,” Gina told him scathingly. A brief, amused smile from the _Questore_ told her that he had not forgotten either.

“So what are your tactics now?”

“Locating Hibari Kyouya is our first priority. That is why _Agente_ Rinaldi asked for your help. He has put Dino Cavallone under surveillance for a few weeks now in hope of learning something useful. He seems to be the centre of these cases, but it won’t hurt to cast a wider net.”

“Except it might just stir the hornet’s nest,” he pointed out.

Gina frowned. “There’s nothing else we can do until we find out more.”

A mirthless smile touched Federico’s lips. “Until the next murder, you mean.”

She did not return the smile. The thought of another murder genuinely sickened her; as if not enough life had been sacrificed for this madness.

“There is something that might be able to help your investigation.” Federico rose and moved toward one of his three choked-full filing cabinets. “If your suspect is Hibari Kyouya, then it might be well to keep an eye open for her henchman.”

Gina’s interest was piqued. “What do we know about this henchman?”

He flashed her a wry grin and returned to his seat with a thin manila folder. “He has a unique hairstyle, that’s for sure. Unfortunately we only have a few pictures of him and not very clear ones at that—the man’s good at being invisible despite his less-than-ordinary appearance and all. This is the best we have.” The photograph he set down on the desk showed a group of casually-dressed men leaving a bar; the one on the back, as Federico had implied, had his features completely shadowed by the rigid length of his hair, a style she had seen once or twice in a Japanese movie. “We caught him in the picture by accident,” Federico added. “Our target was actually a man from the Dormiglione Family—the second one from the left. Lucky coincidence.”

Gina would have agreed with him, but the picture also provoked an entirely different sentiment in her. The idea that a criminal could be brazen enough to walk in the full glare of the sun without fear turned her fists white-knuckled with anger.

“They always like to show off,” she muttered, her voice tight as terrible memories from her past came flooding her mind.

“They do.” A hint of sympathy in Federico’s voice had not gone unnoticed, but she could not bring herself to meet his kindly gaze. “Too bad they’re also masters at hiding their presence when they want to.”

“Still, we will find her,” she vowed, the words bitter in her mouth. “Whatever it takes.”

 

—

 

32.

For a fraction of a second, Romario wondered if he had ever seen his boss more furious.

The idle thought, however, was quickly chased out of his mind as a more pressing matter took precedence. He played the video for the third time in the privacy of his laptop and found confirmation—also for the third time—that it was the same man who had been found dead not three hours ago in the streets of Palermo. From his point of view, the video amounted to an attack to the Family and such things never went unanswered.

The only questions were who and why.

Ghostly white smoke curled silently to the ceilings from the tip of his cigarette as he pondered upon the facts. Every possible explanation which introduced itself to his questioning mind only bred more questions. His first suspicion fell in line with his boss’s thinking and went to the Cloud Guardian. The fact that she was nowhere to be found also strengthened his suspicion, and yet the reason still escaped him. It had been _years_ —and if anything, it was Dino who had been hurt most by the acquaintance.

He knew for sure that there had been a ring, once, a modest band of white-gold with no adornment but the significance of its value. Like any other man in love, Dino had been hopeful, giddy and restless with anticipation. Soon, however, it had become increasingly painful to watch rejection after rejection piled on that hopeful sincerity. In a way, it was a blessing that after the refusal of yet another proposal, Dino had gone to the United States for business and afterwards fallen in love with Georgina Russo.

Romario, for one, had been relieved. Despite her father’s less-than-satisfactory reputation, Georgina was a kind, sensible woman who appreciated, if not loved Dino in return—and as far as his opinion went, a definite improvement from the Vongola’s Guardian. At the very least, she did not play with a man’s heart as if it was a thing of amusement for her. If there was one chief feature Romario wholeheartedly expected from his boss’s wife, it was that she did not cause him such acute misery.

Still, it neither improved nor helped his current theory. The fact remained that this cruelty was not at all like Kyouya. She had always been ruthless, but it was part of her nature and beyond that, she had never dealt deliberate malice toward anyone.

Unless, of course, the subject deserved it—although Romario could perceive no reason why Georgina should. Kyouya had never loved his boss and pride was such a petty thing to be paid by these murders.

 _Had she?_ Romario frowned. A few times he had entertained the possibility, but at the next evidence of her indifference, there was no choice but to toss any such speculation out of the window. Hibari Kyouya was a Cloud through and through; any manner of attachment was always to be spurned and she did not care to soften her blow for anyone in any way. From his seat as a mere spectator, it had not been long for Romario to feel his apprehension giving way to resentment. He hated to see the shadow of disappointment in Dino’s face and how it had slowly consumed him, that possessiveness which had been so like poison in his blood.

Could it be that Kyouya begrudged Georgina that power? A direct assault would have been more in keeping with her style, but to do so would mean to admit that she cared, and Romario wondered if she was capable of that much honesty.

The only way to resolve this situation was to find her. A direct confrontation would be best, although Romario was not sure if he wanted his boss to do it. The depression which had engulfed the manse since Reborn’s visit yesterday was now spreading like a plague. Dino had locked himself inside his office after giving his order to _just fucking find her_. Before, misery had crawled beneath that forbidden name every time it had escaped his lips; now the edge of fury was unmistakable.

 _“No one touches my wife and son.”_

There were not that many men with golden hair, Romario decided; if he had to use the entire Cavallone network in Italy, then by God he would make use of them, down to every single resource. He would find her.

 

–

 

33.

“We are looking for a Japanese woman in her mid-twenties with short, black hair and average height. You can see her picture in the handouts which are now being distributed. We believe that she is responsible for a series of murders—the last of which occurred here only yesterday—or at least is connected to them. She might wear a disguise to alter her appearance, so be careful not to dismiss anyone too quickly. Also, please bear in mind that this woman is a central member of a Mafia Family. She is exceedingly dangerous and most likely armed, so anyone who finds her is advised to report to the command centre immediately and wait for further instruction either from me or _Agente_ Daniele Verro. That will be all for now, thank you.”

Torn between excitement and horror, all officers in attendance left the briefing room in relative quiet. Dani watched them without a word, and then looked at his partner who still stood at the centre of the room, frowning.

“And now, we wait.”

 

–

 

34.

The day dawned bright and cold, a sharp promise of winter in the air. Tetsuya went through his usual morning activities with habitual quickness resulting from years of practice. The uneasiness which had been prowling deep inside him for the last three weeks was especially marked today, but he chose to attribute the feeling to his unfamiliar surroundings.

It was yet another safe house, remotely located in a sparse suburban area so as to avoid as many unwanted contacts as possible. His Mist characteristic could only provide so much concealment and it was wiser to play safe when nearly all eyes in Sicily were looking for foreigners matching their descriptions. As far as houses went, Tetsuya reflected as he began with breakfast preparation, it was adequate, though by no means as comfortable as Japanese houses. To his relief, his mistress did not comment on the utter foreignness of the style or furnishings.

In fact, she hardly showed any sign that she noticed.

Her mornings nowadays never differed from one another. She was rarely awake before nine and so he had the leisure of a few hours until his service was wanted. Then he would wait at the door—standing up, for kneeling was singularly unpleasant on tiled floor—until she permitted him entrance. He would go in, breakfast tray in hand, and lay it down on the floor next to her mattress.

He still remembered the last time she had tolerated a bed—and the only person she had tolerated it for.

One hour was the usual time until he would come for the tray. On this particular morning, she was standing before the open window when he once again knocked on her door. Only the morning tea had been drunk, the cup empty while plates and bowls and chopsticks quite untouched. Tetsu bowed his head to hide any trace of disappointment which might touch his face. He had learned not to question her—most likely one of the reasons why she had let him stay by her side all these years.

Still, if the habit were not quite ingrained in him, he would have asked, would have _urged._ He couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was fading, her once slender figure now ceding to thinness of skin and bones, the paleness of her skin unaffected by Sicily’s sun; like a wraith.

And yet how beautiful she still looked, how like an ethereal fragment of a man’s dream.

He rose to his feet, and before moving toward the door, took care to ask—as always. “Is there anything in particular you need today, Kyou-san?”

She did not answer for a long time and Tetsuya knew better than to repeat the question. He waited until she tore her gaze from the barren valley beyond her window and acknowledged his presence.

“I don’t want you following me tonight,” she said. “Just be ready in the car and wait for my call.”

He fought down a strong desire to protest, aware that her orders were absolute. “What about the video camera?” he asked instead.

A contemptuous smile graced her lips. “Throw it away. I don’t like it.”

With a silent bow, Tetsuya withdrew. He did not realise how badly he wanted to stay and keep her company until the door clicked shut.

 

–

 

35.

Norma scratched off yet another name from her list with such vehemence that her pencil tore the paper. After thirty-seven phone-calls worth of absolutely nothing, she was almost ready to go to her boss and confess to the murders herself.

Her long-suffering sigh caught the attention of a local police officer who was working on his desk on a similar task, not far from hers. She returned his kind, sympathetic smile with an awkward one, remembering his offer for dinner but last night and the precipitous evasion it resulted. Trying to ignore her rapidly multiplying guilt, Norma returned her gaze to her computer as another call came into the line.

A woman’s terrified voice whispered: _“Please help me. There are a group of Asians lurking around my neighbourhood. Two of them are women.”_

She fell into standard reply. “Please don’t be panicked, ma’am. We’ll send in someone to check your premises immediately. May I have your address?”

A string of address was whispered in an even lower voice. After repeating it twice, Norma contacted officers on patrol in the area, who naturally were less than pleased at the report.

 _“This is the fifteenth time today–”_

“Just get down and make sure that everything is alright,” she said through gritted teeth. “Please.”

With a few loud curses, the officer terminated the line. Norma wondered how anyone could ever consider setting up the command centre and organising surveillance as ‘having it easy’ compared to the field job. Information was necessary—even vital in any case. At least they were lucky this once to have the local police’s cooperation. The _Finanza_ might be more well-funded and well-connected in almost every aspect to deal with Mafia Families, but it was the locals who would be acquainted with gossips and hearsays, from which valuable information was often derived.

“How’s the tip line?”

She looked up to find her two superiors approaching her desk. “If we don’t get a call from the State Tourist Board in the next few hours, I’ll be very surprised,” she answered wryly. “And then the Japanese Embassy, and possibly Chinese and Korean too after that.”

Dani looked astonished. Norma sighed and continued, “After yesterday’s press conference, you can’t expect people not to get nervous at every Asian woman within their line of sight.”

Carlo shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. Have Tucci’s men reported in anything yet?”

“No. I assume they’re still sitting outside Cavallone’s estate, watching what number of entries they have to cover between them.”

Dani made a sarcastic sound through his nose. “The esteemed don is playing it safe for now.”

“We know he isn’t stupid,” Carlo muttered darkly. “Let’s just hope that he will do something before the next murder happens. We’re joining the patrol today, Norma. The heavier police presence in the streets, the better.”

“Alright,” she nodded, her smile strained. “Please be careful. I’ll let you know if we hear anything interesting.”

 

—

 

36.

To outside eyes, Georgina knew that she looked remarkably calm after what had happened mere three days ago. Even during childhood, her shock had always been slow-spreading—not a swift, debilitating blow, but a silent enemy, slithering from within. She had lived too long under the scrutiny of false friends and true enemies alike to discard her mask so easily now.

And there was Adriano, strangely conscious of the sudden shift of mood in the house but unable to provide himself with a satisfactory explanation. It was not in his nature to be withdrawn, and yet of late she had noticed his sudden lapse of quietness, an unguarded moment between one childish amusement and the next. He was still much too young, much too honest to conceal what he felt. Countless times, Georgina thought of the video and the possibility that it had affected him just as she feared, but to broach the topic meant knocking on a door she knew she wanted to remain closed for as long as it could. He was _her_ son.

Self-defence, however, proved more difficult still. She tried not to let her mind wander into that particular memory herself—of that striking golden hair and terrified whimpers; it was the first time she had ever seen Dino so angry. The attack might have been aimed at her, but there was no denying the victim and his physical resemblance to her husband. His sudden distance, which felt too much like guilt so soon after the incident, only strengthened her suspicion, but until now, she had keep silent and merely let it fester.

Georgina pushed aside the menu she had been contemplating for her monthly tea party—a deceptively innocent name, for all the purpose of such congregation was to keep abreast of all things and further her husband’s cause. She left the silence of the library only to find commotion outside, hasty feet leaving discordant echoes down the hall. Ambushed by sudden fear, she followed the sound in the direction of Dino’s study. The door was ajar, allowing voices to drift from within as she drew silently closer.

“–if we go at once, maybe we can catch her.”

Romario’s voice was toned down into a whisper, but in the absence of any other sound, the words found their way to her ears unhindered. Her heartbeat quickened and she could feel the tremor in her hand as she pushed the door wider. Not even the dim lighting of the office could hide the look on her husband’s face.

“What happened?” the question left her mouth before she could stall its birth.

He looked up sharply, as if finding challenge instead of familiarity in the sound her voice. But then his eyes recognised her and their intensity softened into a tenderness she knew only too well.

“There’s an emergency,” he said quietly—one, _two_ semi-automatics disappearing into folds and creases of his coat. Georgina refrained from making any comment as he retrieved a whip from yet another drawer. “I’m sorry, I’ll have to take care of this myself.”

It was exactly the carelessness in his voice which told her of the gravity of the problem. She chanced one step into the study.

“It has something to do with the video, doesn’t it?”

His eyes bored into hers, heavy with something she could not quite understand. “Yes.”

“Will you be home before dinner?” It was such a petty question, but Georgina felt like she had to try and hold on to a semblance of normalcy, in the face of everything; she thought, _my child, your child, our child, he needs you._

His gaze did not falter, but his voice was soft. “I don’t know, but I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Be careful.”

The flash of his smile tore at her heart, more so than the swift kiss he bestowed on her lips—and then he was gone.

 

—

 

37.

According to Carlo, waiting for the proverbial pin to drop was the worst part of their job. Dani, who knew better than to disagree when his partner was in a foul mood, did not attempt an argument.

“She cannot possibly fail to notice the number of police of officers patrolling the streets,” Carlo continued upon his lack of expostulation. “If she’s smart, she will lie low for at least a few weeks—or change her hunting ground. I’m sure we’ve frightened every blond man left in the area with the press release and put everyone else on their guard. It won’t be easy for her to lure anyone now.”

Dani shrugged, eyes intent on the road. Their rental car was a large and cumbersome one, and to navigate their way through the city’s narrow roads and winding alleys required especial care. “We have to start somewhere,” he said after they had managed to escape to a friendlier terrain. “You agreed that Cavallone was as good as any in this case. Besides, the news was a nation-wide release, so even if she does try to leave, it isn’t going to be easy either.”

“You forget that she can hide in plain sight—whatever the trick is.”

Yes, she could, Dani thought sourly. It was one maddening aspect of dealing with the Mafia, murder or not, foreigners or not. His own frustration deepened with the sky’s diminishing light. Yet another day wasted.

Then his cell phone rang. Dani parked their car in front of a small restaurant and fought down a soaring hope at seeing Norma’s name on the screen, but traces of it still spilled into his brief, one-word answer.

“Yes?”

“ _Agente_ Tucci just called: the target is moving.” Norma sounded no less excited than he was. “His team is following the car leaving the estate right now. He also said that Dino Cavallone was only accompanied by one of his men. What do you want me to do?”

“Keep tracking their movement,” he answered immediately, “and guide us through it. If he’s planning to do something, we’ll have to see it with our own eyes.”

“I can do better,” she told him, a triumphant note in her voice. “If you check your mobile, you will see that I’ve linked the GPS from Tucci’s car to your device. All you have to do now is watch.”

“You’re amazing, Norma,” Dani said solemnly. Her only reply was a small snort which nevertheless sounded pleased.

“So where is he going?” Carlo’s voice was impatient.

Staring at the map now displayed on the screen of his cell phone, it took Dani a few seconds to realise that he had absolutely no idea; he was in an unfamiliar territory.

 

—

 

38.

“Aldo saw her not far from his _trattoria_ and he called me at once; that was five minutes ago.”

Romario could tell that his boss was barely listening. It was perhaps just as well, considering the speed they were driving at—and yet, he could not help but suspect that it was neither the road nor the rapidly passing signs which Dino’s eyes were seeing. The thoughts they betrayed, even shadowed by night’s thickening shroud, only pushed his uneasiness to something close to panic.

“Boss, you need to slow down.”

If anything, the caution only served to provoke instead of ease. The car roared as Dino shifted into a higher gear and pressed the accelerator even deeper. “There might be no other chance, Romario.” His voice was low, condensed into the barest essence of meaning and feeling. “I must find her, now or never.”

“But it will be more effective —very much so—if you find her while you’re still _alive_.”

“I can handle this,” was the curt answer.

Romario had to clench his teeth to discourage further protest; it would be useless anyway—and as much as he hated to admit it, Dino did know how to handle speed. What Romario was less sure about was the state of his mind and to what end he might be driven, when faced with the one woman who still had his heart very much in her cruel grasp.

For the millionth time, Romario regretted ever advising his boss into accepting Reborn’s offer, that lifetime ago.

“Have you decided what you are going to do when you have found her?” he asked quietly.

The silence which greeted his question implied more danger than Romario would like to speculate. “I don’t know,” Dino said at last, fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel. “What I do know is she must be stopped. And I’ll do anything to make sure of that.”

“Be very careful, Boss.”

A mirthless smile. “That goes without saying.”

Romario battled frustration with patience, as always. “What I’m trying to say,” he spoke slowly—deliberately—just enough to spell the words out above the car’s impatient whine, “is the world doesn’t begin and end with her.”

Dino did not answer, and neither did Romario expect one. He watched instead, as light and shadows sped past, chasing each other in a hazed, colourful blur.

Love, he thought, wondering why such hateful word existed.

 

–

 

39.

“We should have gotten one of the local officers with us,” Dani murmured darkly as another cul-de-sac forced him to turn the car around and retrace his path. “These alleys are driving me crazy.”

Carlo responded only with a noncommittal grunt, much too busy trying to make sense of the GPS map to provide a more intelligent reply. The deepening night did not help. They could barely see the streets’ names and distinguish one from another.

“Where are we going, Carlo? Talk to me.”

“A minute. This looks familiar.”

“He could be going to meet her right now.”

“I know.”

“Then where in the name of–”

“I think they’re heading this way.”

Dani hit the brake so fast that Carlo was nearly thrown off his seat. “What?”

“Now they’re– wait, they’re stopping, and we just passed this street a few turns back.” Carlo looked up, his eyes quickly measuring the merit of continuing in their car with the streets so filled with pedestrians. “To hell with it. Running will be faster.”

In two seconds, he was out of the car. Dani cursed under his breath and turned off the ignition before following his partner into the nearest alleyway.

 

–

 

40.

He should have gone with her.

Tetsuya deserted the car’s confines for a bit of nature’s coolness, perhaps a soothing breeze. Limited space proved unlimited for his restless mind, a veritable breeding ground of infinite theories, each always darker than the last. There would be killing again tonight, that much he was certain. Lives passed through Hibari’s hand like wasted grains of sands—a despised crowd, meaningless. He should have been there, to clean up the mess, to make sure things had not spiralled out of reach. She would not care to look back after the deed was done, always a victim of such single-minded passion.

Something was wrong. He rapped a knuckle on the top of the car, trying to curb an urge to defy the order and look for her. Instinct was merely deep-seated knowledge, nothing mystical about it; he knew, more than felt, that he was making a mistake.

Kusakabe Tetsuya battled himself for a long time, until the world fell silent, to bed, to sleep, and still his cell phone refused to ring.

 

–

 

41.

She felt nothing.

Kyouya rose to her feet in mild annoyance. This was humdrum, monotonous, pointless. There had been something once—the first man, the first scream, the first blood dripping on that colour, soaking through each gossamer strand. It could have been a trick of the light, that one moment's haze, as the more rational part of her brain always suggested every time a new experiment brought her nothing but disgust, and still she kept trying, trying, _trying_.

And now this man lay here, his throat crushed, his body destroyed, swallowed by its own gore and fluid, and to her it was all pointless. Such a waste.

She heard footsteps approaching, familiar ones, familiar enough to coax her curiosity and raise her eyes. When she saw him, veiled by night and a look entirely too alien for her to identify, she wondered if surprise should feel so hollow, so purposeless.

“Do you hate me that much, Kyouya?”

He even sounded the same, Kyouya thought, a simple reflection of fact. She knew now: as the one lying dead at her feet, another substitute would be equally pointless. Only he would do.

“This has nothing to do with you,” she murmured, the words falling far too easily from her lips.

“Stop this.” He was only a few steps away now, and still approaching. “Please.”

“I said this has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why?”

“None of your business.”

His hands grasped her arms, bruising her flesh. “You should have just come and killed me.” There was anger in him, tight, coiled, like an unborn baby. “At least _I_ would have deserved it.”

“Exactly.”

 _There it is_ —that black satisfaction which swelled inside her at the sight of pain bleeding in his eyes, all over his face. She smiled and he saw her smile, all pleasure and no remorse. When he kissed her with a dying man’s moan in his throat, she went for that familiar lower lip at once and bit the warm, pliant flesh.

He withdrew, chastised and bloodied. She tasted the metallic saltiness on her tongue.

“You will never stop, will you?”

“This has nothing to do with you,” she repeated, now a mechanical chant. Her attention was riveted by the sight of his lips. Blood always suited him best; perhaps it was the reason why she liked to hurt him so much.

“I’m sorry I’ve made you so unhappy.”

Even in the depth of apathy, she managed a slight frown. “How many times do I have to say it?”

He smiled then, the corners of his lips weighed by sadness instead of joy, and she felt, acutely, the warmth and presence of his hands, fingers, breath, all his, _his_. “Until you tell me the truth.”

She would have sighed, or hit him with the tonfa, but irritation was beyond her. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“But it does. You proved it, again and again.”

“This has nothing to do with you.” Somewhere, in the deepest part of her which she never cared to look, Kyouya wondered if she tried so hard to believe it because the other possibility was just impossible.

This had nothing to do with him. Nothing. Everything. This had everything to do with him.

“I’m really sorry.”

“This has–”

He pulled her close and kissed her again. She heard his anguished sob, the soft _I love you_ muffled against her lips, and then felt the cold, solid nudge on the left side of her temple—all a little too late.

 

–

 

42.

The gunshot tore into his musings like thunder, the echoes rippling in the empty air.

“What the hell?”

“That way.” Dani pointed to his left and they ran to the direction of the sound.

 

–

 

43.

The gun fell from his fingers’ clutch; it had served its purpose.

Kyouya. His beautiful Kyouya. Dino could barely see through his tears and the thick wetness of her blood on his face. Her lips were still warm, a testament of the living. Except she was dead. He had killed her.

They said Hibari Kyouya never trusted anyone—oh but she did. One person. The only reason why Kyouya had not, could not have dodged the bullet was because she thought there was no threat coming from him. And she was wrong.

Or perhaps she was not. Perhaps this was exactly what she wanted. It had been her vow once, that he would die by her hand. This was but a mirror.

He wondered if her heart would have broken too, in that world that might have been

She weighed very little in his arms, Dino reflected, almost affectionately as he carried her body, his feet guiding him, one before the other. He thought of the remaining bullets in his gun—such a terrible temptation.

“Stop right there, sir.” He heard the voice coming from his aft, stern, impersonal, a stranger that did not belong. What he wouldn’t give to hear Kyouya’s voice once more. “Put the body down. You’re under the rest.”

He kept walking, one foot before the other, simple applications of muscles and sinews and motionless bones—anything to put some distance between him and the gun. “Dino Cavallone.” Another voice; it spat his name like a curse. “You just committed a murder. We cannot let you walk away.”

“You will,” he murmured, almost to himself. He did not need to turn around to see Romario and Bono, soundless as shadows, their guns pointed at those law officers’ head.

His car was just around the corner. Ivan was already in the driver’s seat, waiting, eyes carefully not looking at him. Dino slipped into the back with her—lifeless, cold, unspeaking, unsmiling, _dead_. She was dead. He had killed her.

The car moved, gently, as if mindful of his pain.

At least, he thought, numbly, now she did not need to suffer—and yet such a paltry consolation it was. Holding her close to his chest, this woman he loved and hated most in the entire world, Dino cried.

 

\---

 

 **Epilogue**

i.

“We don’t have a case.”

“He’s a murderer!”

Carlo was beyond angry. Dani watched as the flush of anger on his partner’s face turned livid white. He remained silent in his hospital bed, wishing that his head would stop pounding—or Carlo would stop shouting. The morning’s brightness did not help.

Gina’s stony expression did not alter. “We don’t have a case,” she repeated.

“But you heard something from your spies, didn’t you?” Carlo demanded.

“There is some tension between the Vongola and the Cavallone.” Her admission was stiff, guarded. “Not unexpected, considering that he murdered an important Guardian of theirs.”

“And you said we did _not_ have a case.”

“Because we don’t have a dead body and without a dead body, I don’t see how the lawsuit can even begin to proceed,” she retorted sharply. “It’s often like this with those people. And believe it or not, we already have our hands full trying to protect civilians from their claws. I personally can’t give a damn if they kill each other.”

“What about the other murders?” Carlo refused to relent; a graceful retreat was never his strong point. “Are you going to pretend that they did not happen?”

“It was her.” Gina’s fingers curled into a fist and she looked ready to punch him. “We knew it was her.”

“And that’s it?”

“I got an unofficial phone call last night from Gokudera Hayato,” she continued, her voice cold. “He confirmed that Hibari Kyouya was the murderer we were looking for and implied in so many words that she had been taken care of. Your murderer is dead.”

“They’re washing their hands off this business.” The disgust was clear in Carlo’s tone.

“And yesterday you said those murders were personal.”

“They were! They couldn’t be professional hits… damn it!”

The silence which followed his outburst was worse than the argument. Dani glanced at Norma who was sitting by his bed in a chair, but she was staring at his partner, her expression tense with alarm.

Sounds floated in from the open window—normal everyday’s sounds: people’s chatter, subdued laughter, doors opening and closing, hurried footsteps from three floors down. And yet they felt so surreal after all the confusion last night. His momentary relief after waking up in the hospital and discovering that his only injury was a bump at the back of his head had disappeared. The hollowness which had spread soon afterwards did not.

“You said he held her body.” Norma’s soft voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up, finding her eyes on him.

“Old history maybe.” It was Gina who answered. “I doubt we will ever discover the real reasons why Dino Cavallone did it—or why Vongola had him do it, if that was the case.”

“It was love.”

Dani only realised that he had said them out loud when Gina threw him an incredulous look. The stony expression on Carlo’s face, however, told him that he was not the only one who had come to the conclusion.

“You saw him.” He held his partner’s gaze, reading a shadow of denial in it. “It was love.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah,” Dani sighed deeply and left it at that.

 

–

 

 _FUUTA: Dino ranks number one out of 82263 when it comes to Mafia members who care for the civilians._

 

—

 **  
_End_   
**

**Author's Note:**

> ➢ Two Italian law enforcements in particular are involved in this fic: the _Polizia di Stato_ or State Police (Carlo, Dani, and Norma) and the _Guardia di Finanza_ , one of whose divisions deals with organised crime (Gina). I've never seen any Italian-based crime drama though, so my portrayals of these people are largely derived from American and British ones orz
> 
> ➢ [Giovanni Falcone](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giovanni_Falcone): a prosecuting magistrate who was murdered during his attempt to battle the Mafia. His death turned the world's attention to a criminal organisation which had been previously regarded as a myth and marked the beginning of the Mafia's downfall.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Dictionary**  
>  _questura:_ the headquarter of the State Police, present in every major town or city  
>  _Corona di Rose:_ Crown of Roses  
>  _quadratura:_ Italian ceiling painting  
>  _terra delle Mafia:_ land of the Mafia  
>  _orata al forno_ : a dish of baked sea bream


End file.
